A New Divide
by phorosz
Summary: When Connie falls through the ice at the quarry, she disappears, and ends up somewhere else... The effect of this sudden turn of events will alter the future in a way that no one could have imagined, and show the Evans family that the world is far bigger than they ever thought.
1. Chapter 1 - The Quarry

_A/N: August 30, 2014: Exactly two months after the final release of Something About Mark, I present my latest work - A New Divide, a Fringe/Good Son crossover story._

* * *

**Chapter 1 - The Quarry**

**Rock Harbor, Maine**

**December 17, 1993.**

* * *

Trees. Snow.

A massive sheet of ice, spread perfectly flat as if it were a man-made rink.

And people, many people, bundled in warm, brightly-colored winter clothes skidding about at breakneck speeds.

These had all become a blur as twelve year-old Mark Evans stumbled down the slope toward the frozen surface of the quarry below. Great puffs of white vapor trailed behind him as he crashed through thickets of dead underbrush, having long since veered off the beaten path.

The air burned in his lungs with every breath. His feet throbbed with the exertion of having run so far so fast. But Mark knew that he couldn't stop.

He had to find Henry and stop him.

Before it was too late.

* * *

The time spent with his Uncle Wallace's family had started out all right. At first, it seemed as though Mark, and Wallace's son, Henry – who was also Mark's age – had some very similar interests, and would get along quite well together. But all it had taken was a few short days for the truth to be revealed:

There was something very, horribly wrong with Henry.

In the beginning, Mark had taken some of his cousin's stranger habits to be part of a 'feeling-out' process that anyone had to go through with a new friend.

But then the dog had happened along, and steered Mark's opinion in an entirely different direction.

Utilizing a homemade bolt-shooting device, Henry had killed the poor animal without a second's hesitation. Even worse, he had seemingly enjoyed it, too.

"_Where's your sense of humor, Mark?"_ Henry had asked him after disposing of the 'evidence.'

After spending the better part of a day avoiding each other, Henry had dragged Mark out to the garage to participate in his latest scheme, at which point he had apologized – or, at least, tried to apologize – for the incident with the dog. He even went so far as to suggest telling his parents, but, as they both very well knew, saying anything would get them into a whole mess of trouble neither boy wanted.

As a result of this, and out of sheer boredom, Mark had decided to simply drop the matter altogether.

But what happened next had been impossible to ignore.

Out in the garage, Henry had made a dummy out of old clothes, pillow stuffing, and a lampshade, and named him 'Mr. Highway.'

Not knowing what his cousin had in mind, Mark had agreed to help him carry the dummy to an unspecified destination. That destination turned out to be a local overpass, under which ran one of the main roads into and out of Rock Harbor.

At first, this had all seemed like a harmless game, with Henry seating the dummy on a railing, and making up a story as to why Mr. Highway wanted to commit suicide. But then Henry threw his creation into the roadway below, and the game took a sudden, deadly turn.

The drivers at the time must've thought that someone had actually jumped from the bridge. In trying to avoid the body of the fallen 'man', at least three cars were wrecked and the traffic in those lanes was backed up for hours as a result.

Thankfully, no one was seriously injured. But Mark knew that it could have been much worse. Had he suspected that Henry was planning anything of the sort, he _never_ would have agreed to help in the first place.

But that was just it.

He hadn't.

And the worst part of it was, Henry didn't even seem to care about all the hardship and pain he had caused so many people. Like with the dog, he had seemingly _enjoyed_ it, too! It was sickening.

That same evening, Henry had issued a rather poorly veiled threat against his own sister, six year-old Connie.

Mark could still remember the exact words.

"_Such a sweet little girl... It would be too bad if something happened to her. If she got...hurt. You'd be sad, wouldn't you, Mark?" _

Henry hadn't said exactly what he was going to do to her, but nonetheless, Mark knew he was going to do _something_, and for that reason alone, he had to keep Connie safe.

Throughout the next day, Mark kept a close eye on his younger cousin, even going so far as to escort her to a nearby playground and keep watch over her for several hours. In a way, he had become Connie's self-appointed protector. And with Wallace and Susan having gone out for dinner that night, Mark was the only thing standing between their daughter and whatever Henry had planned for her.

Indeed, when the power went out, Mark had seriously feared for Connie's safety.

Fortunately, even though Henry got to her first, all he did was tickle his little sister, scaring the bejesus out of Mark in the process.

In the vein of protecting her, Mark promised to read her multiple bedtime stories, and got her away from Henry as quickly as possible.

Keeping true to his word, Mark read Connie three stories before she finally fell asleep, exhausted. Then he tucked her in for the night and left.

But, of course, Henry had been just outside her room, lying in wait for Mark.

"_That was a darling story, Mark," Henry said with a smirk._

_Mark immediately tensed. Henry had started to go around him and into Connie's room. Reflexively, Mark's arm shot out to stop him._

"_What are you doing?" he asked._

"_I just want to check on my kid sister," Henry replied, pushing Mark's arm out of the way. "Got to make sure she's tucked in."_

"_She's tucked in," Mark said tersely, stepping into Henry's path._

"_We'll see." Henry quickly faked to his right and went left around Mark, who instantly turned and followed him into the room. _

_Henry went to the bed and switched the reading lamp back on. Then he bent over his sister. Connie had fallen asleep with her head bent back and her neck vulnerably exposed. Mark watched nervously as Henry reached out to touch it._

"_Such a sweet little thing." Henry's words were filled with ominous mockery. He straightened up and turned toward Mark in the half-light. "Do you really think I'd hurt her?"_

_They stared into each other's eyes. Mark nodded slowly._

"_Yes," he said._

_He thought perhaps Henry would get angry, but he only smiled. As if he was proud of that fact._

_Connie stirred and muttered something unintelligible under her breath. Both boys turned and looked at her. Mark felt Henry's hand on his shoulder, and it squeezed uncomfortably._

"_What are you going to do?" Henry asked. "Stay here and watch her all night?"_

_Mark slapped his cousin's hand away. "Yeah, if that's what it takes, I will."_

And so he had.

But when he woke up that morning, Connie was gone. According to Susan, Henry had taken her ice-skating at the old, abandoned quarry, under the pretext that he hadn't been spending enough time with his little sister.

From that moment on, Mark hadn't been able to stop running.

Now, here he was, stumbling and sliding on the snow beneath his feet, dead branches slashing at his face and hands and giving him a multitude of cuts that he'd have to explain away later. But right now, Mark didn't really care.

All that mattered was getting to Connie, before it was too late.

He could see her – and Henry – about halfway across the flooded old quarry, skating toward a bend in the rock face that obscured what was on the other side.

With a final grunt of exertion, Mark heaved himself through a thicket of underbrush and stumbled out onto the ice.

"Hey, watch it, kid!" someone shouted.

"Interference!" someone else yelled.

Mark suddenly realized that he'd run right into the middle of a hockey game. There were a dozen guys all around him, looking a little put-off at this sudden interruption.

"Sorry!" Mark gasped. "Really, sorry!"

When he started running once again, he noticed that his boots had little to no traction on the ice. But slowly, surely, he moved forward, stumbling and sliding with ever-increasing speed.

Far ahead, Henry had entered into a long, arching curve, with Connie hanging onto her brother's hand for dear life. Her cries of exhilaration and delight now sounded a bit more fearful.

"_Connie, let go!_" Mark shouted at the top of his lungs as he slipped and slid farther out onto the ice. But of course, she couldn't hear him. It was too loud here, and there were too many people. His voice was just one of many, lost in the din.

And now, he could see what lay beyond the rocky bend:

A long, thin wooden barrier painted red and white that stretched across the entire breadth of the quarry, warning skaters of thin ice ahead.

To his horror, Mark could see that Henry was skating in that direction. As his cousin hit the top of the arc, he seemed to stumble ever so slightly, and then suddenly, he just let Connie go.

The centrifugal force threw her forward, skates hissing on the ice as she tried her best to slow down, but her best simply wasn't good enough. Connie cried out in fear as she crashed headlong into the barrier, shattering it and sending the girl flat onto her stomach.

But she still didn't slow down. She continued to slide across the ice, which had now turned from white to a dull gray and had a thin sheet of water across its' surface. Seconds later, the ice opened up beneath her with a loud, wet crack, and in the blink of an eye, Connie vanished from sight.

"_Oh, my God, Connie!_" Mark screamed. He tried to run faster, but as if he were in a nightmare, the faster he ran, the slower he went.

As he slowly stumbled in the direction of the barrier, Mark suddenly felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end. Simultaneously, a slight, barely discernable tremor ran through the ice under his feet.

Out beyond the broken barrier, there was now a three-foot diameter hole in the ice...

And absolutely no sign of Connie.

"_Connie! NO!_" Mark screamed again.

At long last, people finally began to notice his cries and turned their attention toward the area where Connie had disappeared. People began to shout.

"Someone went through the barrier!"

As one, the entire crowd of well over a hundred people stopped dead in their tracks. There were a few mortified cries and shouts of urgency that Mark couldn't quite decipher. Then, with slowly gathering momentum, everyone began moving in the direction of the barrier.

Once again, Mark found himself being left behind.

To his surprise, Henry was now belly-crawling across the thin, gray ice, toward the spot where his sister had gone under.

Was he really trying to save her?

Some of the crowd had started to venture beyond the broken barrier. Pieces of splintered wood were scattered across the ice. Mark could see Henry looking over his shoulder at them.

"The ice is breaking! Don't all come too close!" Henry shouted at them as a loud, splintering _crack_ suddenly echoed off the nearby rock walls.

"I can't find her!" He was screaming hoarsely. "I can't find her!"

Another, sharper _crack_ rang out through the air as Henry neared the hole in the ice, where water now lapped at the jagged edges, and his sister was nowhere to be seen.

New shouts came from behind Mark as he edged his way through the crowd.

"Out of the way!"

"Make a hole!"

He spun around and saw two men skating toward him, one carrying a tall, metal ladder, and the other, a sledgehammer.

A third _crack_ brought a scream and few murmurs of fright from the crowd.

"What's happening?!" someone asked.

"Too much weight all in one place!" the man with the sledgehammer shouted. "Get back, all of you! Get back and –"

The loudest noise yet put some needed emphasis in his words, and the crowd began to do as they were told. But it was too little, too late.

Just as the men reached the gap in the barrier, a spiderweb of ragged, milky white cracks rapidly spread outward from the hole nearly ten feet in all directions.

Right in the rescuers' path.

Right beneath Henry.

A loud, genuinely surprised cry went up from Mark's cousin as a sudden wave of freezing water splashed him in the face.

With one final, agonizing noise, a massive section of the ice shattered and caved in, taking Henry with it and plunging him below the surface. A collection of simultaneous gasps and screams of terror went up from the crowd as they stumbled backwards, not wanting to suffer an icy fate of their own.

Mark, however, still couldn't give up. He just _couldn't_.

Unlike Connie, Henry bobbed to the surface almost immediately, floundering in the frigid water and spluttering like a beached fish.

The man with the sledgehammer stopped and laid the heavy mallet aside.

"It's too thin!" he yelled. "You'll have to go it alone!"

Now the other man gingerly continued across the ice toward Henry, dragging the ladder behind him.

_It's taking too long!_ Mark thought, still working his way through the crowd. Finally he reached the gap in the barrier and started through it. Suddenly a hand landed on his shoulder, halting his forward progress and pulling him back.

Mark turned and saw the man who had been carrying the sledgehammer.

"It's too dangerous out there," the man snapped.

"But... but those are my cousins out there," Mark replied, stumbling over his words.

"Cousins? Kid, that Western tan of yours must've gone to your brain. There's only _one_ out there."

Mark stared hard into the man's eyes. "Why do you think he went out there at all? His _sister_ went under _first_."

The man blinked in shock. "My God..."

The man with the ladder crawled on his hands and knees up to the edge of the brand-new hole as Henry swam toward him, the boy's movements growing slower and more lethargic with every second.

_Hypothermia_...

Out on the ice, the man suddenly cast the ladder aside and reached a hand out to Henry to pull him in. The crowd around Mark had been murmuring, but now it simply watched in stunned silence as the man struggled to get a grip on Henry.

In the distance, Mark heard an ambulance siren approaching. His throat felt constricted. His heart beat like mad, blood pounding in his ears.

_This can't happen_. _Not again_.

Connie had gone under barely a minute ago, and there was still no sign of her on the surface.

_NO! _

At the moment, everyone was a little too preoccupied with Henry's predicament, something Mark could probably bet that his cousin hadn't bargained on.

The rescuer's arms plunged into the freezing water, and with a mighty heave, he dragged Henry up onto the ice.

A sudden cheer went up from the crowd, and the man who had stopped Mark breathed a small sigh of relief. Utilizing this minor distraction to his advantage, Mark slipped from his grasp, and before the man could stop him, he was out beyond the barrier. He stopped and kneeled on the ice beside Henry and his rescuer.

"What the hell are you doing out here, kid?!" the man snapped angrily. "It's not safe!"

"He's my cousin. His..."

Henry suddenly mumbled something incoherent. Mark leaned in closer, and heard him again.

"Connie..." Henry mumbled again, his voice slurred. "Connie..."

Then he went limp, head lolling to the side. For a second, Mark panicked, but then he saw that Henry was still breathing.

His rescuer looked at Mark in confusion. "Who's that? Who's Connie?"

Mark swallowed hard. "She's his little sister. _Also_ my cousin."

The man before him blinked, still uncomprehending of what this boy really meant.

"Why do you think he was out here?" Mark said, blinking back tears from his eyes. "It was _Connie_. _She_ went under _first_."

The man's eyes went wide and he stared out over the open water, which was once more growing still, almost mirror-like, with ice and bits of wood from the barrier bobbing gently on the surface. He turned to Mark and shook his head sadly.

"With how long it's been..." he tried saying, but his words trailed off.

"The EMTs are here!" someone from the crowd shouted.

Mark turned his head and saw a man and woman hurrying toward the edge of the ice through the snow, carrying a stretcher and an oxygen tank.

With some difficulty, Henry's rescuer dragged the boy's limp, water-logged body across the ice toward the shore, Mark crawling along behind them as fast as he could. Once they got there, Henry was quickly hefted onto the stretcher, and an oxygen mask was placed over his mouth. Then he was carried back up the path through the woods.

Mark had followed them all the way to the ambulance before they noticed him.

"What do you think you're doin', kid?" the man asked in somewhat of an annoyed tone as they bundled Henry into the back of the vehicle.

"I'm his cousin..." Mark started to say.

"What happened to your face?"

Mark shrugged, unable to find his words.

"In any case, you might need some stitches," the woman said. She turned to her partner and he reluctantly nodded. With that, Mark was hustled onto a bench in the back of the ambulance and the doors slammed shut behind him.

A loud thud sounded on the doors, and the ambulance began trundling forward, slowly gaining speed until it was out on the main road into town.

The female EMT sat across from Mark and silently watched as the boy dropped his head into his scarred hands and started to sob.

Connie was gone. Henry had won, but very nearly at the cost of his own life.

Mark's body heaved as he wept, the tears now flowing freely from his eyes.

He had failed.

* * *

**SOMEWHERE ELSE**...

Chief Foreman Paul Anderson cringed and turned away as the loud rumble of a dump truck worked its' way even through his earplugs, and totally drowned out what the man walking beside him was saying.

"What was that?!" he yelled.

Charlie Cooper, assistant foreman, waited until the infernal beast of a vehicle was out of earshot before finally responding.

"Crews in the central pit managed to get the drill working again before they left last night," he said. "Think we should check it out?"

Paul nodded, and they continued in the direction of the central mining pit.

"Speaking of last night... What'd you think of the game?"

"Which one? Pats or Dodgers?"

"Well, both, I guess," Paul replied.

"Hmm..." Charlie scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Pats definitely aren't on their way to another championship, that's for sure. Not with Sutton getting sacked that many times... Ouch. As for the Dodgers... well, they're the Dodgers. Not a whole lot to be said there."

Paul nodded in agreement.

"True."

"Hey, Boss?"

"Yeah?"

"You ever been to down to Brooklyn?" Charlie asked. "Or Manhatan, for that matter?"

Paul laughed. "On this salary? You gotta be joking."

Charlie shrugged. "Just askin'."

"But now that you mention it, the kids have been begging for a Christmas vacation for the past month," Paul said.

"Well there you go," Charlie said, grinning.

With that, they started their descent into the central pit. Below sat the currently inactive Main Drill No. 3, which had been giving them the biggest of hassles for the past week and a half.

"What exactly did the crew down here do to get that old monster working again, anyway?" Paul asked rather quizzically.

"Supposedly... they did it just by power-washin' its' guts."

Paul raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

Charlie nodded in reply.

"Almost sounds a little too simple," the chief foreman scoffed.

As they descended to the bottom of the pit, nearly fifty feet below ground level, Charlie slapped a hand at the back of his neck.

Paul looked over at him in bewilderment. "Another one of your famous phantom bugs?" he asked in mildly sarcastic tone.

His assistant foreman seemed to ignore the snide remark. "Don't tell me you didn't feel that."

Paul shrugged. "Feel what?" he asked.

"That... tingling feeling."

"You sure you're all right?"

"Yeah," Charlie said, shrugging it off.

But then, as Paul strode into the control booth for the No. 3 drill and depressed the starter button, a sudden jolt of static electricity zapped the tip of his index finger, and he jumped back.

"Ow! What the...?"

"Problems?" Charlie asked from outside, his tone snarky.

"Ha-ha. Real funny, Charlie. You put the crew up to this?"

The assistant foreman shook his head and raised his arms in a gesture of surrender. "Much as I would have liked to, I can't claim responsibility for this one. Faulty wiring, maybe?"

Paul cautiously advanced back up to the control board.

Nothing appeared to be damaged, so with that, he once again pushed the starter button, and with a loud, mechanical cough, the old drill grumbled to life.

He stepped outside and listened. Somehow, it _did_ sound better than before.

"Huh..." he scoffed.

"What?"

"Who knew a power washing was all that this old thing needed?"

Seconds later, Charlie slapped his neck again, but this time, Paul felt it as well. The hairs on his neck and arms stood on end, and he could almost feel the static charge in the air.

_What the hell?_

He didn't have to wonder for long.

A bright, bluish-white flash lit up the sky above, and they instinctively dove to the ground for cover. The electricity in the air crackled as if it were alive, sparking off the nearby control booth and the drill. Then a slight tremor shook the ground beneath the two men, sending a choking cloud of dust into the air around them and letting loose a small avalanche of gravel from the slopes above.

And, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the light was gone. In its' place was the dust, and the sound of a million tiny rocks cascading down the slopes.

Both men coughed as they cautiously stood to their feet. Fortunately, the ground seemed stable, and thus there was no likelihood of the drill shaft turning into a sinkhole and swallowing them without a trace. Admittedly, that was a bit far-fetched, but when Paul had first felt the tremor and then the dust in the air, that was what he'd assumed.

For once, he was perfectly happy to be wrong.

"What was that?!" Charlie asked, gagging on a lungful of dust.

Paul shook his head. "Hell if I know... But whatever it was, I'm not gonna risk damaging the drill."

With that, he reentered the now-dusty control booth and blindly felt around for the shutdown switch. Fortunately, he knew this board like the back of his hand.

Paul quickly jammed the switch into the 'off' position, and from outside, he could hear the drill slowly winding down.

"_Emergency shutdown initiated_," a monotone, computer-generated voice intoned from the speakers above his head.

But then he heard something else.

It was the sound of Charlie, shouting his name.

Paul ran out of the booth and looked around for his assistant foreman. Charlie was kneeled on the ground near an old sand pile, still yelling for his boss.

"What is it?!" Paul yelled over the noise of the drill.

"Come over here!" Charlie cried. "Now!"

The urgency in the man's voice stirred something in Paul and he ran over.

What he saw there left him gaping.

The limp form of a young girl laid half-on and half-off the sand pile, her right leg bent at an unnatural, painful-looking angle.

_How did she get there?_

But even stranger than her simply being here was the fact that her lower body was submerged in a deep pool of water, in which floated slowly vanishing chunks of ice. Then there was her clothes. She was wearing a white wool hat and a purple, full-body snowsuit, the latter of which was something Paul hadn't seen in years.

Stranger still, she was wearing _ice skates_.

And to top it all off, she seemed familiar in some way, but Paul couldn't quite place his finger on it. When the dust finally cleared, he gasped as her features came into sharper focus.

_That face_...

_That brown hair_...

Beside him, Charlie looked equally taken aback.

"My God..." he mumbled.

Paul kneeled into the water beside the girl and removed the hat from her head.

He nearly fainted.

It _was_ her.

It was Connie Evans.

* * *

_A/N: Well, here it is, finally. Opinions on this first chapter? _

_And no, I didn't misspell 'Manhattan' as 'Manhatan'. The latter is the way they spell it in this alternate universe, known in Fringe as 'the Other Side'. If you haven't watched the series, I **highly** recommend it (aside from the fact that it's a part of this story). For you fellow Fringe fans, I hope you enjoy this._


	2. Chapter 2 - Not Again

**Chapter 2 - Not Again**

* * *

Susan was in the living room, standing by the piano, looking at the photo of Richard. He'd been a strong boy for his age. Already steady on his feet, even for a two year-old. How could he have possibly drowned himself?

It was a question she'd asked herself almost every day, almost every waking hour, since the terrible thing had happened two years ago.

She, Henry, and Richard had been alone in the house that day. Wallace had taken Connie out to the store. Susan had left Richard sitting up in the tub, playing with his bath toys, to answer a phone call from Nikki Conners, the mother of one of Henry's friends – one of the few – from school.

When she came back, her baby was completely still and face down.

_In six inches of water_.

And that only left Henry unaccounted for...

Susan shook that thought from her mind. No, she mustn't think that. It simply couldn't be true, and she hated herself for so much as even _considering_ it.

No, Richard's death was a freak accident, just like Wallace had said.

_Six inches of water_...

And then the phone rang, jolting Susan back to the present. Brushing her train of thought aside, and burying it deep in the recesses of her mind, she went out to the kitchen to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Susan!"

It was Wallace, his voice filled with a mix of anxiety, worry, and fear.

"Wallace, what –"

"You need to get down here. _Now_. I'm on my way to the hospital."

"What for?"

Her husband paused for what seemed an eternity.

"It's the kids, Sus. There's been an accident down at the quarry."

Susan's heart skipped a beat and she swallowed hard.

"What – what happened?" she asked, doing her best to calm the rising wave of emotion within.

"It's Connie. She and Henry fell through the ice while they were skating. Henry's in the ER right now, and he's been unconscious for the past hour..."

That was all Susan needed to hear.

From the moment she hung up, she never stopped moving, and barely even slowed down at all.

Susan swiped her keys off the counter, threw on her coat, and practically jumped into her shoes before flying out the front door, barely remembering to lock it behind her. Waiting not ten feet from the porch, at the end of the driveway, was the family van, a scarcely three year-old Plymouth Grand Voyager.

They had gotten it the year after Richard was born. She and Wallace had both agreed, now that there were three kids, their eight year-old station wagon simply wasn't cutting it anymore. With that had started virtually day-to-day, two-hour round trips into Bangor, searching for a proper replacement vehicle, which was not, by any stretch of the imagination, easy. After nearly a month of searching and waiting, they had narrowed their choices down to either the latest model Dodge Caravan or Plymouth Grand Voyager.

At first, Wallace had leaned toward getting the Caravan, even though the two vehicles were virtual clones of each other – in the same vein of the Ford Taurus and Mercury Sable – but eventually changed his mind in favor of the Grand Voyager after comparing the safety statistics, and finding the ones for the GV to be slightly better than the Caravan.

Better safe than sorry, as the old saying went.

And so a cold, rainy day in August 1990 was the last time any of them rode in the old station wagon. Wallace drove Henry to school that morning and worked out of his office in town most of the day, while Susan had stayed home with Connie and Richard, and was worn ragged by the time Henry got back.

Susan could distinctly recall that he'd been in such a mood – angry, apparently, over the fact that Wallace had been unable to pick him up and that he had to ride the bus home – he forgot to ask for his after-school milk and cookies, something Henry typically demanded the split second he walked in through the front door.

That night, Wallace had been unusually late, by over two hours. In fact, he was so late that he didn't get back until eight o'clock, a scarce half-hour before Connie and Richard's bedtime. Susan had had a sneaking suspicion as to what was taking him so long, but she kept it to herself in the event that she was wrong.

Fortunately, she wasn't.

All through dinner, Henry's foul mood had hung over the house even more oppressively than the dark rain clouds in the late summer sky. Even Connie, who had been talking for just over a year at that point (and would normally babble half-coherent sentences every opportunity she got), was noticeably subdued, while feeding Richard was even more of a struggle than usual.

But from the moment he saw that van pull in the driveway, with his father at the wheel, Henry's childish anger had all but evaporated. It was quickly replaced by a sense of eagerness and sheer wonder. He had wanted to take a ride almost immediately, before Wallace so much as even got a foot in the front door. Not particularly eager to have Henry throw another tantrum, Susan had offered to take her husband's place in the drivers' seat and let him rest at home, but surprisingly enough, Wallace insisted on doing it himself.

With that, they all took their first ride in the van, and it was soon integrated into their daily lives.

After Richard's death, Susan had become quite adamant about trading it in for a smaller car, now seeing the van as a waste of space with only two kids around and as yet another constant, painful reminder of her baby boy's loss. In some ways, Wallace agreed with her, but he also saw getting rid of the van as a waste of money, since they probably would've had to buy yet another car.

In the end, it was actually Henry who had convinced Susan that they should keep it.

She could remember that conversation like it was yesterday.

"_You remember how much Richard loved it in the van? Even just going on a short drive into town?"_

_Susan nodded, a wistful tear in her eye. "He did, didn't he?"_

"_I'm not too old to admit, I kinda feel the same way sometimes," Henry said._

_In a way, that didn't really surprise Susan at all. _

"_The van became a part of all of us, including Richard," Henry continued. "For me, giving it up would be like..."_

_At that moment, Henry choked, obviously trying to hold back his own tears._

"_Would be like what, hon?" Susan asked._

"_Would be like giving up a part of Richard... and trying to forget him."_

_Susan sniffed back a few tears at these words and hugged her firstborn close. There were times when he could be an absolute nightmare to handle, but then there were also times like this, when he was the kindest and the most caring young soul she knew. _

By the time she was finished with her latest round of reminiscing, Susan had only just climbed into the van and started it up. Without a second's hesitation, she floored the gas pedal and the van leapt forward, practically flying up the driveway and barely even stopping once she reached the main road.

The entire way to the hospital, Susan lost count of how many times that she broke the speed limit, blew past a stop sign, or cursed at the slow old traffic lights on Main Street. She probably broke a whole slew of traffic safety laws in the process as well. But at the moment, she didn't really give a damn.

Susan burned rubber getting into the hospital parking lot. When she finally brought the van to a stop, the brakes howled in protest. She didn't even want to imagine the checklist at the yearly inspection by the local mechanic.

Setting off at a dead run, she darted in front of several moving cars, producing angry honks of protest from their drivers. Very nearly tripping on the main steps, Susan crashed through the front doors and made a beeline for the elevator, her coat flying behind her.

All she could think of was one thing:

_Not again_.

_Oh, please, God, don't let it happen again_. _Don't let one of my babies die..._

She silently cursed the elevator all the way up to the fourth floor, then ran out and flew down the corridor, dodging and weaving between patients on walkers and in wheelchairs.

Just ahead, Wallace was standing against the wall, his head bowed, talking with a police officer wearing a heavy overcoat and snow boots, while a doctor in blue scrubs stood silently in the background. When he heard her footsteps, Wallace looked up, and Susan could now see that her husband's face was red and streaked with tears.

Her anxiety ratcheted up tenfold.

Wallace almost never cried.

_Oh, please, God, please!_

Susan ran into her husband's embrace and held him tight.

For the longest time, neither of them said a single word. Susan finally broke the silence.

She almost wished that she hadn't.

"Wallace? W – What's going on?" she asked in an unsteady and uncertain voice.

Wallace took another few seconds to work up the courage to respond. His voice was shaky and choked with tears.

"I'm so sorry, Sus. It's Connie. She – she's gone."

_Gone?! _

"G – Gone? H – How?"

Wallace shook his head.

"She..." he gulped loudly. "She went under... and never came back up. Henry tried, but then he... They think she went straight to the bottom..."

Moments later, Susan burst into tears that she had hoped never to cry again.

"_Oh, God, NO!_" she sobbed, burying her face in Wallace's shoulder.

For what seemed an eternity, husband and wife simply stood there in the middle of the hall, crying until they could cry no more.

* * *

An hour later, Susan and Wallace were sitting in a small, private room on that same floor of Rock Harbor General Hospital, looking at the still-sleeping face of their last child.

Yet again, the cruelty of fate had left its' indelible mark upon their family. Would it ever end?

First Richard two years ago.

Then Janice, within the past few weeks.

And now Connie.

Why? What had the Evans family done to deserve so much suffering and grief? Would their name forever become synonymous with death?

Susan could almost feel the cold, unrelenting gaze of the Grim Reaper himself, staring at her from the darkness on the far side of the windowless room.

_Who's next,_ it seemed to ask.

"Who's next?" Susan suddenly asked aloud.

Wallace gave her a funny look. "What's that, Sus?"

Susan shook her head.

"It's nothing," she replied.

With that, she once again retreated within herself.

Susan now looked up at Mark, who was seated directly across the bed from her and Wallace.

The brown-haired boy was even quieter than normal, and hadn't stopped staring at the floor from the second Susan had walked into the room, not even bothering to acknowledge her or Wallace's presence. He just sat there, hardly moving a muscle. His heavy, strained breathing was the only indication that he was even still alive. In the dim light, Susan could just barely make out Mark's own injuries – a multitude of cuts on his face and hands, some of which had required stitches, while both hands were almost entirely wrapped in white gauze bandages. And though the doctors had assured them that his injuries were largely superficial, on the outside, he actually looked worse than Henry did. By comparison, Henry looked downright peaceful.

A rare occurrence if there ever was one.

Susan had seen her nephew quiet before, but this was different. He wasn't simply being quiet. He was brooding over something.

The one look that she got into his eyes said it all.

Sorrow.

Pain.

Anger.

Confusion.

It was a feeling that Susan knew all too well.

Sorrow and pain over Connie's loss.

Anger at himself for not being able to do anything to stop it.

And confusion over why it had happened.

Why?

Just like she had – and still did – with Richard, Mark was likely asking himself the very same question about Connie. Repeating it in his head, over and over, until he simply couldn't bear to ask it any more. Then, probably within hours, he would repeat the process again.

And again.

And again.

He would probably be asking himself this question day-in and day-out, haunted by it for the rest of his life.

Susan wasn't at all certain that he'd gotten over Janice yet, either. It had been over two years since Richard's death, and Susan still wasn't ready to let him go, either. And now with Connie...

One thing, however, was certain. Just like she had told Mark the other day, even when those you loved died, they stayed with you. And they never left you.

Maybe one day, they would all move on.

But that day was not today, nor would it be anytime soon.

Suddenly, the beep of the heart monitor increased and Henry began to stir, groaning as he slowly regained consciousness. Susan and Wallace both stood from their chairs and were at his bedside within seconds. At long last, Mark looked up from the floor and stared directly at his cousin. As Henry finally opened his eyes, for a time, he seemed genuinely confused.

"Mom? Dad?" he asked, his voice slurred.

"We're here, Henry," Susan said, choking down a fresh wave of tears that threatened to engulf her. "We're here."

"What..." Henry grunted as he tried to sit up in bed, but was kept down by a gentle hand from Wallace.

"What about... What about Connie?" he asked.

Wallace audibly gulped, while Susan inhaled sharply.

"Well?" Henry asked. "Where is she?"

His father fixed him with a solemn stare before responding, voice quavering.

"Your sister... Connie... Connie didn't make it, Henry..."

Henry blinked furiously upon hearing this news. For a second, he didn't seem to comprehend. Then a tear slipped from one of his eyes, and then another. Soon enough, Henry was bawling.

Susan hugged her son close and gently rocked him back and forth, all the while trying to give him words of comfort and encouragement.

They were as much for her as they were for him.

"We know you tried to do everything you could, hon."

"I could have tried harder!" Henry sobbed.

Susan shook her head. "No. You did everything humanly possible to try and save your sister. I'm the one who should have tried harder."

Wallace and Henry both gave her strange looks, while Mark continued to stare at what was unfolding before him, his expression blank, yet guarded.

"I never... _never_ should have let you and Connie out of my sight. And – and because of that, I nearly lost both of you," Susan said, her voice on the edge of breaking altogether.

She took in a sharp, unsteady breath before continuing, taking Henry's hand in hers.

"So from now on, I give you my word – my word as your mother – that I will never let you go. I'll never give up on you, and I'll never, _ever_ stop loving you, no matter what."

Henry smiled up at her through his tears and hugged his mother close.

"Thank you, Mom," he whispered quietly.

* * *

Mark watched this exchange with growing uncertainty, uncertainty over what he should do next. Or, even _if_ he should do anything.

Trying to tell Susan the truth was now out of the question.

He knew that his aunt was still suffering from Richard's loss, but that wasn't the problem. With Connie... these emotional scars were far too recent.

Mark was still all but certain that Henry was responsible for this latest, horrible turn of events, and most likely Richard, as well. But with Connie gone, Henry was now an only child, and Mark knew that Susan and Wallace would want to protect their boy and keep him closer than they ever had before.

If Mark said anything now, he could potentially upset the balance even further than it already had been. Things had already gone from bad to worse, and he didn't want to compound the issue.

No matter what, Henry was still their son.

How could he possibly take that away from them?

It wasn't his right to do so.

But Henry was still a danger, nonetheless, both to himself and to those around him. That was why Mark knew he had to keep a closer eye on his cousin from now on. Wallowing in self-pity over Connie's death would do no good. She wouldn't have wanted that. And to that end, Mark was still just as determined as ever to expose her killer for what he really was:

Not the selfless, humble, and caring son that he pretended to be, but the callous, cold-blooded liar that Mark knew him as all too well.

The time would come when he could finally tell the truth.

But that time wasn't now.

Then he caught Henry's gaze.

His cousin's face was sad, and his eyes were filled with tears, but Mark knew that it was nothing but a mask, a well-constructed façade, beneath which hid a victorious smile. Mark could see it in his eyes.

Henry had won, and he knew it.

* * *

When Mark returned home that afternoon with Susan and Wallace, he watched as his aunt disappeared into the woods, having said that she wanted to take a walk and be alone for a while.

Instead of following her, like he so badly wanted to, Mark went back into the house with Wallace.

It felt so empty in here now.

Mark had never felt so alone before in his life.

He and Wallace mostly kept to themselves for the rest of the evening, and even when Susan finally came back looking like she had been crying again, hardly a single word was spoken. At dinner, the three of them ate in silence. No one spoke at all, and the only audible sound was that of the wind whistling outside. A somber gloom hung oppressively over the table and none of them even dared look at anything but what was on their plate.

Once dinner was finally over, Mark wordlessly excused himself from the table and went out to the living room, where he almost mindlessly went about playing _Asteroids_ on the family's Sega Genesis, intent on beating his old high score.

"Mark?"

Startled, Mark yelped and jumped back when he felt someone lay a hand on his shoulder. When he looked up, Wallace was standing there. Mark let the controller drop from his hands to the rug, and met his uncle's sad gaze.

"Wh – what?" Mark finally managed to ask.

"You... You said that your father gave you a number where you could reach him, yes?"

Mark nodded slowly, not certain as to where Wallace was going with this.

"You wouldn't mind giving it to me, would you? I think he should know..."

Mark gulped, but then nodded. He took a scrap of paper from the nearby coffee table and handed it to Wallace. The number for his father's hotel in Tokyo was already on it. Mark had been trying ever since they got back to work up the courage to call, but never got around to it.

Maybe Wallace would have better luck than he had.

* * *

When he got a call from the States, Jack assumed that it was Mark, wanting to check in on him and return his call from yesterday. To the surprise of the forty-three year-old businessman, it was his own brother.

Wallace's tone was heavy and subdued, which soon had Jack concerned.

Had something happened to Mark?

"No. Mark's – Mark's all right," Wallace said.

Jack hadn't even realized that he'd asked the question aloud. He breathed a slight sigh of relief, knowing that his son was okay.

What, then, could keep his brother up at what had to be an ungodly hour over in Maine?

The news about Connie, and then Henry's own near-brush with death while trying to save her struck Jack like a hammer blow to the chest. He was left speechless.

"Jack? Are still there?"

It took some time before he finally responded.

"Yeah, I'm still here, Wallace."

"How much longer do you think you'll be out there?"

"Hopefully, just another few days if I'm lucky," Jack replied. "I'll let you know."

"Mark will be happy to hear that," Wallace said.

Jack nodded.

It hadn't even been a week, and already he found himself missing his boy.

"I hope that Henry gave you my best."

"What?" Wallace sounded surprised and confused. "What do you mean?"

Now it was Jack's turn to be surprised. "I called yesterday, talked with him for a bit. Told him to give you guys my best and let Mark know that I tried to reach him."

"He never said anything to us," Wallace replied.

That was strange...

"Oh, well," Jack sighed. "No matter. He probably just forgot."

After nearly a minute of silence, Jack finally spoke up.

"Give my condolences to Susan. And... and let Mark know that I'll be back soon."

"I will," Wallace replied. "'Bye for now, Jack."

"'Bye, Wallace."

Jack's mind was spinning by the time he hung up. He lay back in his bed and stared up at the ceiling.

Jack couldn't even imagine what Mark was going through. Dealing with Janice's passing had been hard enough. Now Connie drowns before his very eyes?

Two deaths in the family in less than three weeks...

It was a testament to the boy's inner strength that he hadn't broken altogether.

Now more than ever, Jack was determined to put this deal through by Monday morning, come hell or high water.

His son needed him.

* * *

_A/N: As you can see, things are already changing, diverging from the original storyline. I hope I've stayed faithful to the characters so far. _

_Having Mark play 'Asteroids' on the Sega Genesis was my way of sticking a bit of video gaming nostalgia into the story._

_As for the 'two-hour round trips into Bangor', I've figured Rock Harbor, in this universe, is located somewhere along the coast of Waldo County, ME._


	3. Chapter 3 - Connie

**Chapter 3 - Connie**

**December 18**

* * *

At the moment, Connie Evans' mind floated in utter blackness. She was awake, and yet she wasn't. It was a strange sensation, to say the least.

The last thing she remembered was the pain, pain like she had never felt before. It was like getting stabbed by a million of her mother's sewing needles all at once. Then there was a bright light.

And now nothing.

_Am I dead? _

Because this didn't seem like Heaven to her.

Then, she heard something.

A voice.

It sounded vaguely familiar, too, but it wasn't immediately recognizable.

Connie began moving toward the voice, but so slowly that she felt as if she were stuck in mud.

An instant later, though, Connie felt like she was flying at incredible speeds. It was so fast, in fact, that her vision began to blur and twist in on itself. Fearing the worst – whatever that might be – she squeezed her eyes shut, but it made no difference.

Now the voice was closer. Much closer.

In fact, it seemed to be coming from right beside her.

Connie tried to open her eyes, to see who it was, but at first, her eyelids refused to respond. Then, slowly but surely, they did. And, at long last, thin rays of dim light began to filter through.

Light!

Was _this_ Heaven?

A sharp stab of pain quickly put that question to rest. Unfortunately, she was still alive.

The voice soon became coherent, and Connie could tell that whoever it was, they were speaking directly to her.

"...just like you used to. Remember?"

Remember what?

At the moment, Connie couldn't really remember much of anything. It was taking all her focus just to open her eyes.

But even when she finally did, she couldn't tell where she was now.

She was lying on her back, staring up at a bland white ceiling. Her head was propped up by pillows and she was covered by a pink wool blanket all the way up to her shoulders.

Was she in bed?

With some difficulty, Connie turned her head to the side, and could finally make out the source of the mystery voice. Someone was sitting off to her right, still rambling on about something. But they stopped altogether when they realized that Connie was looking directly at them.

"Hey there, you," they said. The voice was kind and gentle. It was also maddeningly familiar, but Connie still couldn't figure out just who it was.

The blurry figure of this kind person stood and came right up to the side of her bed. Then they reached up and gently touched her hair.

"You had us worried for a little while back there."

Us? Who was 'us'?

Connie blinked her eyes, and finally some of the blurriness began to fade. As well, the figure standing at her bedside came into sharper focus, and suddenly she knew who it was.

It was her brother.

It was Henry.

She felt a sudden surge of panic and tried to sit up, but a white-hot flash of pain down her right side quickly put this to an end and left her on the verge of tears.

Henry gently laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Take it easy. You don't wanna be exerting yourself too much right now."

Since when did he care?

"Hang in there, kid," he said. "I just gotta step out for a sec. Be back before you can spell 'stork.'"

With that, and a quick smile, Henry turned on his heels, opened the door, and left the room. A bright light from what lay beyond the door nearly blinded Connie and she squeezed her eyes shut, hoping to block out the pain.

As she lay there, waiting for her brother's inevitable return, a quick succession of images and sensations flashed through her mind.

_Being out of control, and unable to stop._

_Fear._

_And cold. An all-consuming cold._

"Mom! Dad!"

That was Henry, his voice distant and far away.

Why hadn't he tried to do something to her already?

Well, at least he was going to get Mom and Dad.

Or was he?

Connie certainly wouldn't put it past him to pretend something like that so he could purposely get her hopes up, and then pull the rug out from under her. Just like the times when he'd gone and popped the balloons at her birthday parties or eaten all of her good candy at Halloween.

Henry seemed to get a kick out of watching her suffer, particularly if he was the one causing it. He had always treated her as nothing more than a verbal – and on occasion, literal – punching bag than a human being.

He was only ever nice to her when it served his own purposes.

So why was he being nice now?

Probably to show off in front of Mom and Dad.

Now Connie began to wonder why she had even decided to go skating with Henry in the first place.

Maybe she had held out some hope that he was actually being nice to her for once.

Well, she had somehow ended up in the hospital, so that idea quickly went out the window.

Connie scarcely had any more time to think about it, as a series of footsteps announced the entrance of several people, one of which had to be Henry. She slowly peeled her eyelids open, and sure enough, her brother was once again at her side, but right behind him was their parents, both of whom looked like they had been crying quite a bit.

They were all smiles, and looked very happy to see her.

Her mother was first to break the silence.

"Hey there, baby girl," Susan said, her voice quavering slightly.

Connie's father delicately took one of her hands in his and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"Welcome back, honey," he said, a happy smile breaking across his face.

Lastly, Connie looked up at Henry and watched, wide-eyed, as he pulled a red bandanna from his pants' pocket and tied it about his head.

"See? Stork!" Henry said, giving her a goofy grin.

Despite her uncertainty as to her brother's actions at the moment, Connie smiled back at him, since such displays of 'niceness' were few and far between when it came to Henry.

A little giggle sounded from off to Henry's right, and Connie's brother suddenly kneeled down, almost out of her line of sight.

"You like that as much as she did, don't you?" he asked.

Who was he talking to?

But that giggle – it sounded eerily familiar. Then Connie heard it again and there was no mistaking it this time.

Seconds later, Henry stood back up, but now he awkwardly held something – or, rather, some_one_ – in his arms. Connie's eyes bugged out of her head and her mind went spinning.

This had to be a dream.

Because, right before her, was the little brother she had said goodbye to so long ago, a face that she had never expected to see again.

Richard.

"Say hello to Connie, Rich," Henry said in an encouraging voice.

The little boy seemed quite timid, but he smiled at Connie nonetheless.

"Hello, Conn-ie," he said nervously.

Connie blinked rapidly.

Slowly, she reached a hand out toward this boy who looked so much like her little brother.

"R-R-Richard?" Connie finally managed, stuttering.

When her hand met his, Connie's eyes went wide. In every dream she'd had involving Richard, whenever she reached for his hand, he simply disappeared into thin air, as if he'd never existed.

But here he was, nonetheless.

And he hadn't disappeared, either.

Henry gave her a funny look as he handed Richard off to their father.

"Is something the matter, Conse?" he asked. "You look like you just saw a ghost."

_Conse?_

When had Henry ever called her by that name? The only one who ever called her that on a consistent basis – and in a good way – was their Grandpa Dan. It was more of a pet name than anything else, which made it even stranger that Henry would use it in a context that wasn't making fun of her.

If this was a dream, it was getting weirder by the second.

"I-I-I... t-thought..." Connie finally responded, unable to form the question aloud.

"Thought what, sweetie?" Wallace asked, sounding concerned.

Connie gulped, trying her best to swallow back this sudden, overwhelming wave of emotions. She had done her best to try and put what'd happened to her little brother in the past, and move on.

But obviously, she hadn't.

"T-that R-R-Richard d-d-drowned!" she cried, tears spilling freely from her eyes.

A look of genuine shock appeared on Henry's face, while Wallace laid a comforting hand on her shoulder and Susan gently squeezed her hand.

"It's all right, baby," Susan said reassuringly. "It's all right. Richard's here, and he's perfectly fine. You just had a bad nightmare. That's all."

A nightmare?

Could that possibly be it? Was it that simple?

Maybe she'd had it backwards this whole time.

But if this wasn't a dream, how come her mother and Henry had seemingly swapped hairstyles? Up until now, Connie had been so preoccupied with the whole idea of Henry actually being nice to her for once, and of Richard somehow being alive and perfectly healthy to notice. Henry's hair was cropped in a neat line just above his ears, while their mother's was now shoulder length.

When had Henry _ever_ gotten a haircut?

"Mom?" Connie suddenly asked, rubbing the tears from her eyes.

"What is it, sweetie?"

Connie sniffled. "Why's your hair so long?"

Susan let out a little laugh.

"Don't you remember?"

Indeed Connie did.

A couple of years ago, right before Thanksgiving, the two of them had been looking through old family photos when they happened upon several of Susan, taken when she was just a little girl herself. Connie had been so enamored by these photos of her mother with long hair that she had tried to get her to grow it out again. But then Henry had called out from upstairs, complaining – as usual – about not having enough clean clothes for the rest of the week, and promptly ruining the moment.

Connie repeated this aloud, trying her best to put words to the thoughts.

"It was before Thanksgiving. We found some photos of you from a long time ago, and I really liked how long your hair was back then."

"So then you asked me to grow it out," Susan finished for her.

Connie squinted. "I – I never actually got to tell you that. Henry interrupted before I could say anything."

Susan and Henry promptly exchanged confused looks.

"Hon, Henry was over at Dylan's that day."

"Well," Henry began, "it _was_ right before she went MIA. She's bound to get the exact details mixed up."

Now it was Connie's turn to be confused.

"MIA? What's that?" she asked. "And why did I go on it?"

"It's a military term," her father replied somewhat tersely. "For when soldiers go... missing."

What? _Missing?! _

The confused look on her face was enough to draw some further conversation from Henry.

"She really doesn't remember, does she?" he asked their father in a low voice.

Wallace shook his head somberly.

"Two years is a long time, I suppose," Henry continued. "I don't remember much from before pre-k myself."

"A long time for what?" Connie asked.

Wallace cast a disapproving glance down at Henry, and the boy shrugged in a rather sheepish manner.

"Sorry," Henry muttered, suddenly finding the floor tiles at his feet much more interesting than he had a second before.

Connie watched over this near-silent exchange with surprise. Henry's reaction was a new one on her. He had always handled that look from their father with an apologetic smile and a kind of grace that Connie could never hope to match.

"What is it?" she asked again.

The question had obviously made her parents uncomfortable for some reason, as Susan shifted on her feet and Wallace thoughtfully scratched at his chin.

"I don't know how to tell you this, but..."

Connie grew concerned at the somber tone in her father's voice.

"But 'what' Daddy?"

Her father noticeably hesitated before finally replying.

"Two years. You've been gone two years."

* * *

"That went over better than I thought it would," Wallace was saying ten minutes later as he strode from the room into the brightly-lit corridor. Susan followed, carrying Richard in her arms, while Henry brought up the rear and pulled the door shut behind them.

Susan nodded in agreement. "But the poor girl was just so... _confused_."

"Makes perfect sense," Wallace said. "Two years. Two goddamned years. Whatever happened, it's more likely than not that she's completely suppressed all memory of it."

"Which means what, exactly?" Henry asked.

"That she likely doesn't remember anything from between whatever happened two years ago and when she woke up here today," his father replied.

"Thank God," Susan muttered.

But that still didn't appear to satisfy Henry. "Then why did she get stuff from before mixed up so badly?"

Wallace shrugged.

"And why would she think anything had happened to Richard?" Susan added.

"Like you said, Sus. She probably just had a nightmare."

"But the way that she talked about it," Susan said, "it was like she believed that it _actually_ happened."

"For many people – and especially children – dreams can, in a fashion, seem just as real as the real world. Sometimes, they offer an escape from reality, and others – like nightmares – twist those dreams and turn reality on its' head."

Though still somewhat confused, Henry carefully mulled over what his father had said before asking a question of his own.

"Didn't Great-Uncle Michael drown a couple months before Conse disappeared?"

Wallace nodded tentatively.

"Maybe she remembered that, and, at some point, it got so jumbled around in her head that she somehow mixed that up with Richard."

"Could be," Wallace replied with an uncertain shrug.

With everything that'd happened in the past couple of years, he was surprised that they all hadn't lost their grip on reality.

* * *

The day of December 2, 1991 had forever been seared into the collective memory of the Evans family.

It had been another unusually warm day for that time of year in Maine, with temperatures hovering in the mid to upper fifties and a chance of rain later that afternoon. Connie had been quite adamant about finding and becoming the first to see a rainbow that year. For that specific reason, she had quite literally dragged Henry out to the park.

Harborwood Park was a beautiful area, nestled just within the nearby forest, and was the perfect spot for recreation, hiking, and the occasional fishing out on Miller Pond (though most never kept their catch, for obvious reasons). The green spaces there were large enough that Henry and his friends would sometimes hold an impromptu baseball game there on weekends, usually drawing quite the crowd of bystanders and even earning a weekly column in the local paper, _The Harbor Examiner_.

In fact, they'd just had one the previous day right after church, providing quite the entertainment for a group of Sunday picnickers in the process.

Because of those wide open fields, Connie seemed to think that they'd be the perfect spot to see a rainbow after it rained. Henry knew that, more likely than not, they wouldn't see anything, but he went along with it for his sister's sake.

In the hours before it was supposed to rain, they did everything from playing a back and forth game of tag and riding the merry go-round to Henry pushing Connie on the swings. At just under an hour to go, Connie had already gotten bored and moped around on a nearby bench until Henry suggested a quick hike up one of the main trails. With time to spare, she quickly perked up and eagerly agreed.

It had started out all right, with brother and sister walking hand-in-hand down the paved and heavily wooded trail. On occasion, a squirrel or chipmunk would dart across their path, or a bird would land in a nearby tree, and Connie would try to chase after them, apparently quite adamant about catching one and keeping it for a pet. Henry was barely able to keep his little sister in check each time.

She seemed to shrink back a bit after he told her that some of them might have rabies. Realizing that his sister didn't quite know what rabies was, exactly, Henry just told her that it was a very bad sickness you got when a wild animal bit you.

That had put a quick end to that argument.

Up until that day, Henry had prided himself on keeping a watchful eye on his siblings and paying attention to their activities.

All it took was a single rock.

They were about three-quarters' of the way up the trail when Henry happened upon a cool-looking red and black-spotted rock for his collection back home. Naturally, he stooped down to pocket it, and, for a split second, forgot that he was holding Connie's hand. When Henry looked back, his sister was gone.

In a panic, he had raced back along the trail the way they had come, hoping to find some trace of her. But there was none. Not so much as a single broken twig or crushed leaf.

The only luck he'd had that day was remembering to bring his cellphone.

At first, both Susan and Wallace had been livid that he'd let her out of his sight, and immediately called in the police to perform a thorough search of the park. Henry would also recall that he'd seen a strange woman out of the corner of his eye, right as they started down the trail.

With Henry's testimony, in less than two days, the FBI was on the scene and had a sketch artist sit down with the boy to try and identify this unknown woman. But the details had seemed to vanish from his head, like a morning fog before the sun. Consequently, his description was rather vague and could have applied to almost any younger middle-aged woman, even his own mother.

As the days, and then the weeks slowly crept by with no sign of Connie, Henry had fallen into a deep depression, exacerbated by the anger his parents directed at him for her disappearance and possible abduction. It didn't help at all that Susan had started to drink excessive amounts of wine.

Christmas that year was noticeably subdued, and Henry refused to so much as open any of his presents, or even eat the breakfast his mother had prepared. Instead, he ate cold cereal and promptly locked himself up in his room for the rest of the day, absorbing himself in reading through his Hardy Boys collection, and only coming down to heat up a TV dinner in the microwave later that evening.

For several months this went on, with Henry largely ignoring his parents and riding the bus to school every weekday. The only times he ever had any real fun was his extracurricular activities, namely baseball and basketball, during which he got some much needed support from his friends. Dylan Conners and Eli Matheson, especially. Aside from Richard, those two were as close to brothers as Henry could get, and he could always count on them to put a smile on his face.

The joint sleepovers he had at both of their houses on alternating weekends were some of Henry's fondest memories from this period.

As for Richard, who was nearly two by then, Henry would still take the time to entertain his little brother and see to helping with his care on a daily basis. In fact, he would sometimes do more to take care of Richard than their own mother, who took to skulking in the cellar whenever the feeling arose.

Susan's depression, on the other hand, had been far more alcohol-related than anything else. She seemed to blame herself for even letting Henry take Connie out to the park in the first place. And while it may have been a mistake on Henry's part for turning his back, he was only human, and it was the kind of mistake that almost anyone could have made.

Fortunately, Wallace was able to realize this on his own, and used that to get back on somewhat more amicable terms with his older son.

As the months went by, the media and the general public inevitably began drawing parallels to the Bishop abduction from '85. Though the circumstances were entirely different, the disappearance of young Peter Bishop, son of Walter Bishop – America's national defense 'czar', architect of the 'Star Wars' satellite defense system, and owner/founder of the multi-billion dollar Bishop Dynamic – had been just as inexplicable.

Eventually, the strain in the Evans household finally came to a head on May 16, 1992 – Henry's eleventh birthday.

Unlike every year past, he didn't want any presents this time around.

All he asked was for his mother to stop drinking, and pleaded for both of his parents' forgiveness.

Ultimately, his pleas had melted Susan's heart, and brought them back together as a family.

Susan still took anger management classes on occasion, but she had come a long way since then.

* * *

The past year and a half had been well-spent, and they had all done their dead-level best to put the past behind them and resume a semblance of a normal life. But now Connie was back, just suddenly as she had disappeared, and Wallace hoped that she wouldn't unknowingly reopen old wounds in the process.

"We should probably get going," he finally said. "She's going to need her rest."

Susan nodded in agreement, and with that, the family started down the hall toward the elevator bank. When they finally stopped in front of the stainless-steel doors, Richard had gotten too heavy for Susan to carry for the moment, so she passed him off to Henry, who promptly gave the little boy a ride on his shoulders, eliciting a squeal of delight from the four year-old.

Henry grinned like a million bucks, and his mother returned the smile. He was in such a good mood that he let Richard have the dubious honor of pressing the 'down' button on the elevator and selecting the first floor when the car finally arrived.

When they finally exited into the bustling, squeaky-clean first-floor lobby, a sudden beep sounded from Wallace's touchphone and he reached into his pocket to retrieve it. When he looked at the automated text message, he audibly sighed.

"What is it?" Susan asked, sounding concerned. "Is it Connie?"

Wallace shook his head. "No, no. It's nothing to do with Connie."

"Then what?"

"I'm needed over in the clinic. Dr. Warren called in sick, and they need me to sub for her 'till six-thirty tonight."

Susan nodded. "Okay. Do you just want me to come get you then?"

"Is Daddy coming home with us?" Richard asked from atop Henry's shoulders.

"No, sweetie. Daddy has to work now, but we'll see him again real soon," Susan replied.

With that, she went up to Wallace and gave him a kiss.

"I love you."

"I love you, too, Sus."

Wallace then laid a hand on Henry's shoulder and ruffled Richard's shaggy blond hair.

"I love you, too, guys."

"I know you do, Dad," Henry replied, smiling. "We both do."

Richard gave an affirmative and emphatic nod.

With one final glance at his family, Wallace Evans reluctantly turned on his heels and went the opposite way.

Henry took Susan's hand in his, and carefully balancing Richard on his shoulders, led her through the automated front doors and into the unusually warm winter air of Maine.

* * *

**Jacksonville, East Florida**

Brandon hurried down the steel and glass corridor, the windows currently tinted a familiar dark hue to block the sunlight from outside. Of course, with all the time he and most of his fellow employees spent inside, the light would more than likely be blinding, which was probably why the windows were tinted in the first place.

He had been hired on as a tech assistant only three months ago, and already he had attracted the attention of 'the Big Boss' – the Man himself. Brandon had been surprised to learn of how similar their approaches to science were.

No limitations.

No regulations.

There was simply no reason for them, not if mankind were to progress in any meaningful way.

Brandon rounded one final corner, to discover that His door was open.

That was never a good sign when the Boss's door was open.

Never.

He stepped up and looked in.

The Man was sitting behind his huge, polished cherry wood desk, and seemed deep in thought, with his head in his hands.

Brandon took a deep breath and rapped on the door.

The Man's head shot up, and he stared at Brandon for just a moment before motioning him forward.

"Come in, Brandon, come in."

Brandon took a few steps inside, completely masking his unease with outward confidence and professionalism.

"What is it, son?" He asked.

Brandon handed him a tablet, the necessary data already displayed.

"Sir, it appears that we may have had another incursion event."

The Man's face went dead serious as he scanned through the initial data logs on the device in his hands.

"When?" He asked.

"Yesterday, sir."

The Man's voice became incredulous and livid. "Yesterday?! And just why wasn't I alerted to it until now?"

Brandon did his utmost to keep his composure.

"Sir, DoD satellites _did_ record the event, but it was automatically classified Top Secret and kept under tight scrutiny. I had to do some pretty fancy footwork hacking into their servers just to get this much."

The Man nodded, and his demeanor quickly became a bit less threatening.

"Where did this event take place?" He asked quietly.

"A mid-size town, on the coast of Waldo County, Maine," Brandon replied.

The Man nodded quietly and seemed to mull over the information before finally replying.

"Get someone up there right away," He said. "We must be certain that this event won't repeat itself. I don't want another Harvard on my hands, Brandon."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

_A/N: This is the first chapter to take place fully within the alternate universe. For those of you familiar with my work, the Henry of this universe is more or less like the one from Something About Mark. The tech in this universe is also identical to that in SAM, which is about twenty years ahead of our universe (in fact, the tech in SAM was inspired by 'the Other Side' from Fringe)._

_I think I did a pretty good job portraying Connie's POV. Do you agree?_


	4. Chapter 4 - An Exercise in Futility

**Chapter 4 - An Exercise in Futility**

* * *

Early that morning, right after a breakfast as quiet and awkward as dinner had been the night before, Mark let Susan and Wallace know that he was going for a walk. Where, exactly, he didn't know.

At least, not at first.

For the moment, he found himself walking along the top of the low stone wall that lined the seaward side of the driveway, something he'd done with Henry on his first full day in Maine. But unlike then, Mark now had to brace himself against a stiff, cold wind tinged with salt spray and hunch down into his jacket. When he finally reached the small stone pillars that marked the end of the driveway, he hopped off the wall and began wandering aimlessly up the road.

As he walked along the shoulder, Mark passed several gated driveways, all of which were either chained up or marked '_Private Property_'. A few were half-overgrown with dead plants and covered in a heavy blanket of unbroken snow, likely indicating that their former owners were long gone.

Were he feeling a bit more daring or adventurous, Mark might've tried scaling one of the wrought iron fences and exploring an abandoned house or two, but he wasn't really in the mood. Besides, he didn't really fancy himself as an adventurous type, anyway.

Unlike most kids his age, Mark wasn't really that scared of an old, abandoned house, though he did find them kind of sad in a way. Everything you found inside was a reminder that a family had once lived there, and made you realize that life could change in the blink of an eye.

They each had their own story to tell, and said stories rarely had a happy ending.

Before he knew it, Mark found himself on Quarry Lane, heading in the direction of that road's ill-fated namesake. The well-trampled path through the woods that led to the quarry itself was empty of people, save for him.

When he finally reached the top of the incline, the frozen surface of the quarry below was utterly devoid of life, and in sharp contrast to the noisy chaos of yesterday, the near-silence that now hung over the area was eerie, to say the least.

As he slowly and carefully made his way down the slope, Mark could see where he'd gone off the path yesterday, indicated by a single set of footprints – his – and trampled underbrush.

Mark suddenly stopped in his tracks roughly halfway down the slope.

At the far end of the ice, the immense hole where Connie and Henry had fallen in was still there, and somehow not frozen over. In front of what remained of the barrier, several men in overcoats watched on as a dark figure emerged from the water. Seconds later, another followed in his wake, and both were carefully hauled up onto the ice.

It didn't take long for Mark to realize that they were divers.

_Probably looking for Connie_...

For her sake, Mark hoped that she hadn't suffered. Drowning was a horrible way to die, and he wouldn't wish that on anyone, not even Henry.

A loud whirring noise, followed closely by what sounded like an overworked semi-truck engine echoed through the cold air, originating at the far end of the quarry. As Mark squinted for a better view, a glistening, oblong white object suddenly broached the surface of the water and slowly rose into the air.

What was it?

He could hear the faint, incoherent shouts of men as the object swung towards the far shore and promptly disappeared from his line of sight.

For the moment, his curiosity got the best of him, and Mark advanced a bit further down the slope. Still, all that he could see was the backs of the men in overcoats and a thick line of trees and dead underbrush. Once he realized that he was getting too close to the ice, he gave up. And after a few more minutes of staring out at the old quarry, the boy finally rounded on his heels and retraced his steps back up the incline.

There was nothing that he could do here anymore, and there wasn't anything left except the miserable, depressing feeling of failure.

* * *

Roughly a half an hour later, Mark found himself in the hospital parking lot, staring up at the four-story building's stained, dull-gray façade. As he slowly made his way toward the front entrance, he kept glancing up at the windows on the fourth floor, as if expecting Henry to be leering down at him from on high.

Fortunately, as far as Mark knew, his cousin's room didn't even have a window. That was a small relief.

Once he was inside, and finally out of the miserable cold, Mark stood in the relatively quiet lobby and eyed both the elevator and the stairs.

He quickly settled on taking the elevator.

Most people might've called it lazy, but after walking as long and far as he had, Mark knew that he'd have to save his energy for the trip back.

And for facing Henry.

With that, he stepped forward, depressed the 'up' arrow, and waited. He stood there the better part of a minute, and when the elevator finally arrived, Mark was immeasurably relieved to see that it was empty. He hated those awkward moments of riding in an elevator with a total stranger who would try to have a conversation with him.

Mercifully enough, no one else got on, either, and Mark rode in silence all the way up to the fourth floor.

When he finally reached Henry's room, the door was ever so slightly ajar, and the light inside was half-on, but from what Mark could tell, his cousin seemed to be asleep. Maybe. You never could tell with Henry.

Mark quietly slipped in through the door and closed it behind him. He made his way around the periphery of the bed and for the longest time, he simply stood there, staring into the sleeping and deceptively angelic-looking face of his cousin. The only audible noises were those of Henry's breathing, and the steady, rhythmic beeps from the heartbeat monitor.

Henry was as peaceful as peaceful could be.

It just didn't seem fair to Mark. Here Henry was, all warm and safe in a hospital bed, while poor Connie had never been given that chance. In the prime of her childhood, she had been unmercifully sent to a cold, watery grave that she never could have seen coming. Connie had only been six years old.

She didn't deserve to die.

_Of all people, why her?_

It wasn't fair.

In the dark and dusty recesses of his mind, some small part of Mark wished that it had been Henry instead. That same part of him soon became almost like a small voice whispering in his ear.

And that was when something inside of him snapped.

Henry was completely helpless at the moment. And since he was asleep now, and Mark wasn't, he was more vulnerable and exposed than ever before.

_Just like Connie, who he never even gave a choice_.

Mark was close to his cousin's bedside, close enough to choke Henry or smother him in his sleep.

_No mercy_.

He certainly hadn't shown Connie any.

Mark's fists clenched at his sides, knuckles turning white and fingernails painfully digging into his bandaged palms.

It would be so easy right now...

To stop Henry once and for all, and to avenge Connie...

Mark finally unclenched his fists, hands trembling like a caffeine addict.

_No_.

This was wrong.

This wasn't him.

Horrified and ashamed that he had even contemplated such a heinous act, he dropped quite heavily into a nearby chair that creaked as he sat down. Mark slumped over, head in his hands, and once again almost on the verge of tears.

_What was I thinking?! Am I no better than him? _

Were their positions reversed, Henry wouldn't have even hesitated.

A split second later, unseen by Mark, a crooked grin formed on Henry's face, and then he laughed aloud. Mark's head shot up at the noise.

"Couldn't do it, could ya?" Henry asked, his tone dry and inappropriately lighthearted.

Mark audibly ground his teeth, but remained silent.

Henry scoffed. "Pathetic."

With that, he finally opened his eyes and almost instantly focused on Mark.

"Did you come to see me of your own free will?"

Silence seemed to be answer enough for him.

"Aw. How cute," Henry said mockingly.

Mark cast a withering glare at him.

"I'm – I'm touched..." Henry said, his tone suddenly emotional.

Mark scoffed in disgust.

"You're sick," he muttered.

Henry's grin got even bigger, and he added a lilt to his voice as he talked.

"You know, I kinda like being in the hospital. The food's not bad – mystery meat aside – you get waited on hand and foot, and, if you get your head at just the right angle, you can see down the nurses' shirts when they take your temperature."

Mark visibly recoiled, and scooted his seat backwards a couple inches in the process.

"And you know what? If I wasn't just some little pre-pubescent puke, I'd be asking 'em out in a heartbeat. I swear, a few of these girls are straight out of Playboy Magazine."

Mark's eyes went wide.

_Playboy?! Good Lord_...

If Susan ever knew about _that_...

But he was only twelve years old. They both were, and Henry seemed to know far more about all of this than he should for a kid their age. This was straying into territory where Mark didn't really want to go.

Not that he _didn't_ know about it, he just didn't want to hear Henry's undoubtedly gut-turning take on human reproduction.

"Why'd you do it?" Mark suddenly blurted out.

Henry screwed up his face in confusion.

"Do what?"

Mark audibly gulped. "Connie. Why? Why did you kill her?"

His cousin fixed him with a blank stare.

"'Kill' is an _ugly_ word," Henry said in a mockingly serious tone of voice. "If anything, I did her a favor. The little brat's finally out of her misery. She always knew that she couldn't compete with me, anyway. I had her right where I wanted, and she never did anything to challenge me. That is, until _you_ came along, and started putting ideas in that warped little brain of hers that she could potentially be an equal with me."

"And just who were you to determine that for her? Connie had every right in the world, just as much as you or me."

"Ha." Henry scoffed openly at Mark's statement. "She deserved nothing of the sort."

"She deserved to live her life!" Mark said, raising his voice.

He was incensed.

"Well..." Henry said coolly, "Life is a fragile thing. If you push it the right way, it can be broken. It's a simple matter, really."

A cold chill ran up Mark's spine.

Death was just another game to Henry.

He had no regard for the sanctity of life, and rules mattered nothing to him. That much was now painfully clear.

Mark was feeling more and more disturbed by the second.

"And do you know what?" Henry asked, giving that crooked, leering grin of his. When Mark didn't respond, he just kept on going. "The best part is, no one will ever know exactly what happened. No one except the two of us, that is."

Henry was going to get away with it.

And he knew that Mark couldn't stop him.

Trying his level best to appear calm, Mark lifted himself from the chair and started walking toward the door. He'd heard enough.

"Leaving so soon, are we?" Henry called out.

Mark paused about halfway to the door, but still, he said nothing.

An obviously fake sniffle sounded from the bed. "I'll miss you," Henry said, his tone mocking and voice quavering.

Mark turned around and stared his cousin straight in the eyes.

"You win," he said.

A sinister grin split Henry's face.

But Mark's shoulders weren't slumped over in defeat. Not this time. He kept his gaze steady and unwavering and his voice as neutral as possible.

"But you're not going to get away with this forever, either." Mark said. "Sooner or later, they're going to find out about you."

"Who's this ubiquitous 'they'?" Henry asked. "My parents? Dr. Davenport? The cops?"

He didn't seem the least bit worried.

Mark shook his head ever so slightly.

"I guess we'll just have to wait and see."

With that, Mark turned on his heels and left as quietly as he had entered.

_Well, __that__ was a waste of time_, he thought to himself as he stalked down the hall toward the elevators.

It was worse than he had thought.

Henry was beyond hope.

* * *

A slim, trembling hand came to rest on the old brass doorknob and gripped it until the knuckles turned white. After a few seconds, the grip relaxed ever so slightly, the knob was finally turned, and the door swung inward, creaking ever so slightly as it did so.

Susan took a deep, shaky breath and walked slowly into Connie's room.

She gently ran her hand across the wall, brushing by several of her daughter's earliest works of 'art', most of which were finger paintings from when she was just two years old.

_Four years ago_...

It seemed like an eternity to Susan, from when she was still pregnant with Richard. She tried her utmost to recall details from that time – a happy time – before the suffering. But a combination of grief and time itself had conspired to cloud her memories like a cold winter fog.

Everything after the fact was painfully clear.

She soon found herself standing over Connie's dresser, atop which sat a decent spread of knickknacks – everything from colorful beaded necklaces and scraps of cloth to a box full of book-on-tape audiocassettes – and already, they seemed to be gathering dust.

_No_, Susan told herself.

Connie just never got around to cleaning her room, ever since Christmas Break had started just over a week ago.

Though more or less a typical six year old girl, Connie had never been a poster child for neatness. In fact, Henry was far better at keeping his room clean than his sister, a fact that had almost always been a surprise to Susan and Wallace, but pleased them nonetheless. However, like the rest of her family, Connie was a bit of a pack rat, and, in only six years, had acquired quite the collection of keepsakes that most would consider junk.

_Well, one person's junk is another person's treasure_...

Some of those objects had, in fact, been Susan's from when she was a little girl herself, the dolls, especially. Having a daughter to pass them on to had been her dream. And six years ago, that dream had come true.

But that was a lifetime ago.

Connie's lifetime.

Susan finally sat on the edge of the bed, wistfully and tearfully gazing around at all that remained of her baby girl.

A shoebox wrapped in crinkled yellow tissue paper and adorned by colorful stick figures drawn in crayon.

A crude paper-mache figurine that Connie had made in Sunday school roughly two years ago.

Or, a largely unrecognizable lump of hardened clay Connie claimed was supposed to be a dog lying down. Try as she might, Susan had never been able to see the resemblance.

But in the case of young children, it wasn't the accuracy that really counted. It was more the devotion and effort that they put into their creations that made them so special.

In other words, it was the thought that counts.

Then Susan's eyes came to rest at the foot of the bed, where lay one of Connie's favorite stuffed animals – an old bear with faded fur, a missing eye, and that had been patched up more times than anyone could count. She reached for the bear and hugged it tight to her chest.

No matter what, she would never let Connie go.

Her daughter's room would stay the same.

Just like Richard's.

Now, Henry was all that she and Wallace had left.

* * *

Wallace had been in his study, with the lights out and the curtains drawn, deep in thought himself when a loud, heavy knocking on the front door brought him out of his stupor.

Was Mark finally back?

_No, we gave him a key. So why would he knock?_

Maybe he lost the key?

Wallace sighed and reluctantly heaved himself from the chair.

He sincerely hoped that Mark hadn't gone and lost the key, because he simply didn't have the heart to be angry with Jack's son right now. It was plain as day to Wallace that Mark was somehow blaming himself for Connie's death. It didn't entirely make sense, but Wallace could very easily understand where his nephew was coming from.

After Richard's drowning, in some ways, he had – and still did – feel responsible. If only he'd answered the phone for Susan instead of leaving it to her, their little boy might still be alive right now. And Susan still blamed herself for leaving Richard alone in the tub.

He'd always tried to convince her that it was nothing but a freak accident, but now, after Connie... Wallace was losing faith in his own words.

A second, somewhat heavier knock sounded on the front door.

He hurried up a bit, steeling himself for a potential confrontation with Mark over losing the house key.

But when he finally went to open the door, it wasn't Mark that was waiting there.

Two men, wearing suits and heavy, button-up overcoats stood on his front porch. The first was an older man, with graying, dark brown hair, and a deadpan face that was pockmarked by a few small scars. His eyes gave off no sign of emotion, either.

All business.

The second man was black, with very short-cropped dark hair, and an equally deadpan look on his face. He seemed quite a bit younger than his counterpart, probably by about ten to twenty years, if Wallace was judging his age correctly. But the man's brown eyes were a different story altogether.

Wallace had seen that look before.

From his own father.

But before he could think any further on it, the first man started to speak.

"Wallace Evans?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Evans, I'm Special Agent Robert Nicholas, FBI."

He flashed a badge before nodding to the second man.

"And this is my partner, Special Agent Phillip Broyles."

Broyles raised his badge as well, before pocketing it.

Wallace glanced at them curiously.

"What exactly are you doing here?" he asked.

The two FBI agents exchanged a brief glance before Nicholas replied.

"Mr. Evans... We may have reason to believe that your daughter is still alive."

* * *

_A/N: As always, opinions and reviews are encouraged. I hope that I'm still staying true to the characters of TGS, that Mark and Henry haven't acted out of character yet. It may seem like Mark contemplating killing Henry in his sleep is out of character for him. The big difference between him and Henry is that Mark can usually control any violent impulses he may have (as seen here), whereas Henry has absolutely no control over those same impulses whatsoever, and almost always gives in to them. _

_I don't think it'd be much of a surprise that a kid like Henry would have something along the lines of Playboy Magazine hidden away in his room or his workshop._

_For those unfamiliar with Fringe, Broyles is one of the main characters and is in command of what is called 'Fringe Division'. In the series, he is portrayed by Lance Reddick. To fellow Fringe fans, he should be quite familiar. _

_Robert Nicholas is an OC._

_The next chapter will deal largely with Broyles and his background story. _


	5. Chapter 5 - The FBI

**Chapter 5 - The FBI**

* * *

As he stood just behind Nicholas and off to his left, Broyles watched as the haggard look on Wallace Evans' unshaven face turn into one of confusion, with an underlying hint of anger. The man stuttered for a few seconds, struggling to find his words.

"E – Excuse me?" Evans finally managed, his voice incredulous. "What did you just say?"

"I said, your daughter –"

"Yes, I heard _what_ you said," Evans snapped angrily, cutting Nicholas off. "But what I can't figure out is _why_!"

"If you just let us explain –"

"Wallace?"

In the entryway beyond, a woman with cropped brown hair and reddened eyes emerged from the shadows and stood a short distance behind Evans.

"Who are they?" she asked in a voice that sounded as if she'd been crying.

"FBI, ma'am," Nicholas answered, once again flashing his badge. Broyles quickly did the same.

"FBI? Why –"

"They were just leaving, Susan," Evans said tersely, without turning around to face her.

But Nicholas remained rooted to the spot, completely unperturbed by the man's icy glare.

Broyles chose that moment to step forward.

At times, people could be put off by his boss's straightforwardness. A case like this called for far more tact and sensitivity than one of the Bureau's finest had ever possessed.

* * *

A scant few minutes later, after a round of apologies, Broyles and Nicholas were seated out in the Evans' living room. Along one wall was a row of overfilled bookshelves, some of whose contents looked to be older than anyone in the room.

Across from the sofa sat a baby grand piano that gleamed even in the dim light of a cloudy New England afternoon. And atop it were photographs of every kind that Broyles could think of, ranging from huge, black and white family portraits, to colored photos of individual people. The closest that he could see were of an older, almost teenage boy with blond hair, and a younger girl with brown hair.

Their kids.

Broyles recognized the photo of the girl to be Connie, the Evans' daughter.

She was the reason why he and Nicholas were even here in the first place, under circumstances that no one would consider ordinary. Now they just had to find the right way of telling Wallace and Susan Evans that there was still hope for their daughter, faint – and potentially crazy – as that hope might be.

"A rescue dive team out of Portland has performed a thorough search of the quarry," Nicholas said. "But –"

"We found no trace of your daughter, Mr. and Mrs. Evans," Broyles cut in. Nicholas cast a disapproving glare at him, but for now, the younger agent simply ignored it.

Wallace Evans stared hard at Broyles, and then Nicholas.

"Then how the _hell_ does this mean that Connie is still alive?" he asked, the anger in his voice audibly rising.

Broyles barely held back a sigh and glanced uncertainly over at Nicholas.

_No_, the look his boss gave him seemed to say.

"The ice didn't freeze over during the night, so there is a chance that she may have gotten out alive," Nicholas answered. "Albeit a slim one."

That brought a faint glimmer of hope to Susan's reddened, tear-stained eyes.

_Admittedly, a_ _slim chance is probably better than none at all_.

"Which, if that's true," he continued, "means we have a missing persons' case on our hands."

"But, rest assured that we will do everything we can to find your daughter," Broyles added hastily after seeing the uncertain looks coming from Wallace and Susan.

Wallace gave a slow nod, while his wife seemed to stare off into empty space. Finally, he looked up at Broyles and Nicholas and gave them a hard, unreadable look.

"I'd like to speak with you two in private, if I may."

Nicholas nodded silently and stood from his chair. "We can go outside. I think we're done for now."

Without another word, Broyles followed his boss and Wallace out the front door. As soon as it closed, Wallace gave them another hard stare and began speaking.

His tone was straightforward and quavered ever so slightly with what had to be greatly conflicting emotions.

"I've heard a lot of bullshit in forty-six years, but I'm having a hard time deciding on whether or not what you said in there was just the latest edition. _Don't_ even dare give us false hope – my wife and I, we've been through far too much for that. So, you either bring our Connie home, or you find a way to give us closure. Do you hear me?"

Nicholas gave a silent nod of assent.

"Yes, sir," Broyles replied.

And with that, Wallace turned on his heels and went back inside, slamming the door shut behind him.

"He's hiding something," Nicholas said in a quiet voice as they descended the porch steps and started down the front walk.

Broyles scoffed incredulously. "His own grief, you mean."

Nicholas raised an eyebrow and they stopped just outside the car.

"What?"

"God, Rob – for all he knows, the man just lost his daughter in a freak drowning accident! Hell, _we_ don't know exactly what happened to her. You have to be a little more sensitive when it comes to things like this."

"You ought to know – I'm not good with... people," Nicholas replied somewhat defensively as he walked around to the driver's side of the car.

"Is that why they assigned you to the Division?" Broyles asked.

"Real funny man, aren't you?" his boss responded in an unamused, sarcastic tone.

Broyles kept a deadpan face as he got into the car.

"Just ask anyone from my unit in the Corps."

"Uh-huh. Right..." Nicholas replied sarcastically as he turned the car around and started back up the driveway.

Broyles stared out at the choppy gray waters of the Atlantic off to his right and released a sigh that was barely discernible as such.

Sometimes he wondered how he'd even gotten here at all.

* * *

Born as the second of three children to Marcus and Linda Broyles of Framingham, Massachusetts on October 20, 1962, Phillip James Broyles had, from a very young age, shown a desire to explore the world around him and to know the unknown.

That was, unfortunately, not a very easy thing to do back in those days.

He had been born into and grew up in an era where racial tensions in the United States were at an all-time high, and consequently, sometimes found himself the target of insults from kids in his neighborhood, one of the first 'integrated communities' in Massachusetts. For a time, that had only gotten worse after the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. in April 1968.

Though he was just under six years old at the time, Broyles remembered that day and the ones that followed quite vividly even twenty-five years hence. Images from his parents' old television, namely of the hotel where King had been assassinated and the nationwide riots that followed had been forever seared into his memory.

Far better, though, had been the _Apollo 11_ landing and Neil Armstrong's historic moonwalk on July 20 & 21, 1969, respectively. Watching that on television had been one of the most exciting moments in Broyles' life up to that point, and still was.

As far as he knew, there was still a framed newspaper in the front hall of his parents' home back in Massachusetts.

Three years later, at age 10, Broyles finally gathered the courage to confront Michael Jacobs, an older white kid from up the street who also happened to be one of the biggest bullies at school and shown him up in a game of baseball, despite the game being rigged in the Jacobs kid's favor. After that, he quickly found respect among the neighborhood kids, regardless of race. Even Michael Jacobs found it in his conscience to compliment Broyles on his considerable skill. That, and their mutual admiration of the game of baseball led to their eventually becoming good friends.

In 1974, the Watergate scandal and Nixon's subsequent resignation – the first and so far only American president to resign from office – had been all anyone could talk about, whether it was at church, the supermarket, or in school. Then a year later came the fall of Saigon and the end of the Vietnam War, as well as the anti-war demonstrations that had shaped much of the American national consciousness and was partially responsible for the counterculture of the '60s and '70s. Broyles counted himself very lucky that, as a kid, he'd never had to go through that overseas horror show.

And, it was only by the grace of God that the '70s had, for the most part, stayed in the '70s.

As his teenage years came and went, Broyles' growing skill at baseball won his school team several state championships and made him a local legend. He was even visited by a couple of MLB recruiters his sophomore year of high school, specifically, from the Red Sox, who were looking for promising young players to help bolster their ranks. As a result, his senior year, he was offered a full ride scholarship to Harvard, something that engendered great pride in his parents, and very much made him look forward to graduation.

But the Iran Hostage Crisis had changed all that.

Broyles' anger at watching the helplessness of fellow countrymen in the face of danger, and feeling just as helpless to do anything about it stirred something inside of him. That something eventually led him to join a Naval ROTC program at the Massachusetts Maritime Academy in the spring of 1980, in preparation for joining the Marine Corps. His sudden and quite unexpected decision in this regard made his parents angry with him for seemingly ditching the full ride to Harvard, inadvertently creating a rift between them that had only grown wider with time and persisted even to this day.

Others, fortunately, had been much more supportive of his decision and registered it with only a slight measure of disappointment. One of those people was Broyles' older brother Stephen, who had become an accountant for a law firm in Boston barely two years earlier, in 1978. Stephen's support of his younger brother's decision stemmed from a mutual respect for the armed forces, engendered by their grandfather, James Broyles, who had been a Marine himself in World War II, and would tell them war stories whenever he came to visit.

For the most part, the years he spent in classes and training had, at some point, been completely blurred until one was indistinguishable from the other. At graduation in the early summer of 1984, his parents were conspicuously absent; but, among those present were Stephen and their younger sister, Katie.

Then-Lieutenant Phillip Broyles was immediately assigned to the 1st Battalion, 2nd Marine Regiment – or 'the 1/2' – based out of Camp Lejeune in Jacksonville, North Carolina. For the next several years, as a reservist, he remained stateside, largely just keeping up with on-base training exercises, and performing three-mile runs on a daily basis.

That is, until he met Diane.

In April 1987, Broyles was fixed with a blind date by several of the men in his unit. Little did they know, their twenty-five year-old lieutenant would fall head over heels for Miss Diane Richards of Wilmington, NC.

That November, Diane Richards became Diane Broyles, and the new couple were quick to move into a small, off-base apartment. The months that followed were some of the best of Phillip Broyles' life.

His first deployment was in the spring of 1988, as part of a classified operation in the Persian Gulf. He would return home in the late fall, just in time for their one-year anniversary.

That was also the time when Broyles made the decision to become an FBI Special Agent.

After passing his entrance requirements with flying colors, he and Diane subsequently moved to Virginia so he could attend the FBI Academy at Quantico, which was also, coincidentally, a Marine base. The five months he spent in training there was a breeze compared to his ROTC training.

Once his FBI training was complete, in June of 1989, the newly-minted Special Agent Broyles soon found himself assigned to a little-known special division of the Bureau based out of Boston, forcing him and Diane to move yet again. The SAC (Special Agent in Charge) was a tough-as-nails Vietnam vet named Robert Nicholas with over a decade of FBI service under his belt. This unnamed division, sometimes literally called 'the Division' had been founded by a Special Agent from the San Francisco office by name of Jack Iverson in the mid-1970s. Its' purpose: To investigate the 'strange' and unexplainable cases that didn't fall under typical Bureau jurisdiction.

Broyles' first year with the Bureau was largely uneventful, as many times, he was assigned non-Division-related cases.

But, the years of relative calm he was used to would soon come to an end.

Then came 1990, and the Gulf War.

After years of saber-rattling and growing tension, Iraq's dictator, Saddam Hussein, had invaded the tiny, oil-rich Persian Gulf nation of Kuwait on August 2, 1990, which Hussein had long persisted in claiming as Iraqi territory. Within a day, Kuwait fell. Neighboring countries, especially Saudi Arabia, vehemently opposed and condemned Hussein's actions for many reasons of their own, among which was causing greater instability in the Middle East.

Broyles' unit, along with the entirety of the 2nd Marines, were quickly deployed to Saudi Arabia's border with Iraq as part of a defensive posture code-named Operation Desert Shield. Six months later – following a month of aerial bombardment – on February 24, 1991, the 1st and 2nd Marine Divisions rapidly advanced into Kuwait, which led to Iraqi troops surrendering en masse.

In four short days, Kuwait was liberated and Hussein's military had been humbled by the firepower of the allied Coalition.

And Broyles himself had been there for every step, humbled in his own way by the ferocity of war, short though it had been. Many a time after he returned to Boston, Nicholas would tell him he'd 'had it easy' compared to Vietnam; Broyles would no longer envy his grandfather having served in World War II, either.

A 'boring civilian life' would suit now-Captain Broyles just fine.

* * *

As the blue sedan rolled out of the Evans' driveway and onto the main road, Nicholas was so focused on driving and Broyles was so deep in thought that neither of them noticed a brown-haired boy in a navy-blue jacket and wool cap walking past, heading in the direction from which they had just come.

* * *

_A/N: I hope this chapter is satisfactory for any Fringe fans reading and/or following this story. _

_My apologies for any potential inaccuracies regarding the Marine Corps or historical events, since this chapter was a bit rushed. _

_No idea as to when I'll be releasing **Chapter 6: Confusion**, since I'm currently in the middle of searching for a job. I'm hoping that it won't take anywhere near as long as it did to write this chapter. Maybe sometime in the next couple of weeks. Chapter 6 will be the second full chapter from the perspective of 'the Other Side', and will largely be from Connie's POV, with possibly a little from alternate Henry's as well._

_I'll keep you all posted._


	6. Chapter 6 - Confusion

_A/N: Sorry it took so long. But now, here is Chapter 6 - I hope you enjoy it. _

* * *

**Chapter 6 - Confusion**

**December 19**

* * *

All through the night, Connie's head was filled with strange, haunting images as she slept, images of someone falling through a frail sheet of ice, and plunging feet-first into the dark, cold water below. They cried out for help, but to no avail.

Connie could almost hear the screams.

A chill swept over her, one that refused to go away.

It quickly transformed into a sharp, icy pain that seemed to suck the breath from her lungs – just like before.

A split second later, she suddenly found herself lying flat on her back in a darkened room.

Off to her right, she could see a shadowy figure lurking in the dim light just beyond the open doorway. A brief flash of light illuminated the figure, but not long enough to discern the person's identity. It was, however, enough to produce a menacing glint from their eyes. Whoever it was, they were seriously starting to creep Connie out.

A split second later, the figure had moved closer – much closer. Then another, longer flash of light illuminated that leering face, striking terror into the young girl's heart.

It was Henry.

Connie wanted to cry out, to scream, do anything to ward off her older brother, but when she opened her mouth, it was as if she had suddenly lost her voice.

_NO!_

Henry's evil, leering smile grew even bigger when he saw her mouth open in a silent scream, and her body trembling in fear. As he slowly advanced toward her, Connie aimed a wild kick at his midsection, but her foot abruptly stopped in midair, as if it had struck an invisible wall.

Then she rather unexpectedly let out a bloodcurdling scream, and her reality shattered like glass.

* * *

"Conse? Connie, wake up!"

Connie's eyes burst open, only to find Henry standing over her hospital bed, a hand resting gently on her shoulder.

She let out a little whimper of fear and looked pleadingly into his eyes.

"P-please, Henry," she stammered, "d-don't hurt m-me."

The gaze that her older brother returned was one of pain and confusion.

"Conse, I could _never_ hurt you," Henry replied. Now _he_ sounded hurt that she would even suggest such a thing. "You had another bad dream. That's all."

Connie blinked. "R-really?" she asked.

"Really."

Now she was seriously confused.

Henry was acting like he was truly concerned for her. He had never done that before. Never. What kind of game was he playing now?

Connie was hoping for one of two possibilities at the moment: Either he really was being nice to her, or, he would just give up this charade and go back to doing what she expected from him – being himself, the cruel tormentor who dared to call himself her brother. She was very much leaning toward the former option, if only because she wanted it so badly to be true, but she also wasn't entirely certain if this was all an elaborate dream or not.

But having a dream within a dream?

Connie didn't even know if such a thing was possible.

And what if everything she thought she had known as her life – namely Henry's near-constant mistreatment of her and Richard's death, not to mention poor Aunt Janice's – had all been one long and disturbingly realistic nightmare? That could very well be true, but she had no way of knowing for certain.

For now, Connie decided to go with it, but what little life experience she possessed told the young girl to be careful.

She offered Henry a cautious smile, and to her surprise, he returned it.

And it was genuine.

"Now _that_'s more like the kid sister I know," Henry said in quite the upbeat tone, wearing a grin that stretched from ear-to-ear.

Connie raised an eyebrow.

"What are you smiling about?" she asked.

Her older brother's grin grew bigger, if that was even possible. He seemed very excited about something.

"What is it, Henry? Tell me."

Henry looked like he was ready to burst with excitement.

And that was when Connie noticed something – Henry was _crying_. But he was still smiling, too, which made it even stranger.

"Henry?"

"You - You're coming home today, Conse," he replied, his voice choking a little.

_Going home? Already?_ Judging by the level of pain she'd felt earlier, and the accompanying injuries, Connie hadn't figured on leaving the hospital for at least a week. Her lower right leg was largely numb, and in a cast, which meant that it was probably broken, not to mention the rather uncomfortable burning sensation all down her right side.

"Home?" Connie asked, a hint of uncertainty in her voice.

"Home," Henry said with an affirming nod. "It's been a long time coming. Too long."

"Where are Mom and Dad?"

Henry pulled a strange-looking device from his jeans' pocket before replying. "Dad... is probably signing you out at the moment. As for Mom, I'm gonna message her, ask where she is. She should've been up here by now."

A faint clicking noise echoed in Connie's ears as her brother tapped away at the device in his hands.

What was that thing?

"What's that?" Connie asked aloud.

"What's what?"

"That thing you're holding," Connie replied.

Henry raised an eyebrow, as if he were surprised that she had even asked. "This? It's my phone, silly."

A phone? It was hardly bigger than his hand! And, it wasn't even plugged in, either. Connie's base knowledge of technology was limited to using her audiocassette player for books-on-tape, and talking on the phone. If there was one thing she knew about phones, it was that they were typically plugged in using a very short cord, and when they weren't, they were practically the size of her arm.

This train of thought quickly came to an end as the door suddenly opened, and their mother came in, pushing a small, bluish-purple wheelchair in front of her, one currently occupied by Richard. The four year-old was sitting cross-legged, and wore the same eager expression as his older brother.

"There you are," Henry said, sounding relieved.

"Sorry I took so long. Jen Allers was headed into surgery, and we had to wait a few minutes for the elevator."

"What about Dad?" Henry asked.

"Last I knew, your father was still filling out Connie's release forms," Susan replied. She then gave Richard a gentle pat on the shoulder. "All right, you, hop up."

"But I wanna go for another ride," Richard protested, his lower lip curling upward and arms crossed in a typical pouting stance.

"Richard..." Susan said in a warning tone, sounding a bit exasperated.

Henry offered a hand to his little brother. "C'mon, buddy. I'll give you a ride later if you obey Mommy right now. OK?"

The little boy shrugged, but he still nodded and finally jumped out of the wheelchair. The relief on Susan's face was palpable. She mouthed a silent 'thank you' to her eldest. Henry gave her a slight nod in reply and herded Richard over to a padded chair on the opposite side of Connie's bed.

* * *

The next half-hour seemed to pass in the blink of an eye.

After helping Connie get dressed in private, Susan ran around the room, cleaning up and gathering stuff together in a series of blue cloth bags at the foot of the bed, while Henry kept Connie and Richard entertained with some old cartoons on his tablet computer – or tabtop – which had left Connie wide-eyed for nearly ten minutes. Wallace walked in just as the final credits had started to roll.

"Hey sweetie," he said to Connie, laying a gentle hand on her arm. "How are you doing this morning?"

"OK," she replied with a small grin. "Better than yesterday for sure."

"Good."

"How'd it go, Wallace?" Susan asked from the other side of the room.

"Paperwork's done for the most part. Doc Michaels said he'd finish it up and cover my shift for today. Don't worry – we already OK'd it with Stevenson."

"That's good," Susan said, nodding, "I think we'd all rather you not having to work a double shift next week."

"Especially not on Christmas," Henry agreed. "That would really stink."

"Who for?" Wallace asked jokingly, "You or me?"

Henry let out a sarcastic chuckle. "Ha, ha."

"Are we all ready?" Wallace asked.

"I think so. Fortunately, there wasn't a whole lot to pack," Susan replied, taking one last look around the room.

"All right. You ready to go home, Connie?"

The little brown-haired girl nodded emphatically.

Wallace then glanced over at Henry. "Son, I'm gonna need your help."

"Sure, Dad. What with?"

His father moved the wheelchair over to where the kids were seated and locked the wheels in place to keep it from rolling.

"Okay. Now, very, very carefully, you're going to help your sister up out of that chair and we'll get her seated."

"Got it."

"You ready, Connie?"

Again, she nodded, and, in the same breath, grimaced from a sudden flare of pain in her side.

"You all right, baby?" Wallace asked, concerned.

Connie sucked in a deep breath, and then nodded.

"OK. Now, just put your right arm around Henry's shoulders, and hold on tight. Think you can do that?" her father asked.

She nodded again, and did just that, albeit a little hesitantly. From her point of view, this was perfectly understandable. There was just too much history between her and Henry to be forgiven or forgotten in such a short period of time.

"Lift on three, Henry. One... Two... Three."

With a barely discernible grunt of exertion, Henry slowly began lifting his sister from her seat, guided by their father the whole way. Once she was up on her good, albeit unsteady foot, Wallace took hold of Connie's other arm, and in conjunction with Henry, walked her over to, and sat her down gently in the wheelchair. The young girl was putting on a brave face, but everyone knew she was still in pain. The morphine she'd been given earlier that morning had already worn off, and it would be another couple of hours before her next dose.

No one envied her in the least, but they all sympathized.

"Sus?" Wallace asked.

"Yeah, hon?"

"You want to head on out to the van and pull up by the main entrance?"

Susan shouldered a couple of the bags she had been packing and nodded. "Sure, just let me know when you're on the way out."

With that, she flashed Connie a quick smile and hustled out the door.

As soon as Henry was certain that his mother was out of earshot, he turned to Wallace to ask a question.

"Do you think it would be okay if I pushed Conse out to the elevator? I'll let you take over from there."

Wallace hesitated. "I'm not too sure about that, Henry..."

"C'mon, Dad," Henry said, almost pleading. "I know what to do. It's not like there's some medical reason for a doctor to push the wheelchair. Besides, what Mom doesn't know won't hurt her."

Despite all the progress of the past year with his mother, Henry wasn't ready to push her limits just yet.

Wallace sighed, and then nodded. "All right. Just to the elevator, and no further. I'll take over from that point. From then until we get out to the van, it's your responsibility to keep an eye on Richard. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," Henry replied, looking relieved.

Once again, Connie felt ever the slightest twinge of fear upon learning that she would be at Henry's mercy, and a thought emerged into her mind in the form of a question:

_What is he planning?_

Simple logic and a slowly growing sense of trust told her not to worry. Their father would be right there at all times, keeping an eye on her like a hawk, potentially leaving little to no opportunity for Henry to do something mean to her, anyway.

But from what she had seen since yesterday, Henry was acting absolutely nothing like she thought, or more accurately, _knew_ him to be. With every passing second, Connie was growing far more inclined to believe that the Henry she knew all too well was nothing but part of a larger nightmare she had thought was her life.

The only further proof she needed was that Henry was no longer playing the part of a cruel tormentor. Instead, it seemed that he was being nice of his own free will.

But it would still be a very, _very_ long while before she decided to put any sort of trust in her big brother.

"You ready to get out of here, baby?" Wallace asked.

Connie nodded.

"Yes," she replied emphatically.

"OK, son," Wallace said to Henry, "You're on now. Remember, take it slow..."

"Dad, I've got this," Henry said in a reassuring tone as he stepped up behind the wheelchair. "I know what to do."

Without another word, Henry wheeled Connie out into the hall, while their father took one final look around the room, and when he was satisfied that nothing important was left behind, herded Richard out the door and closed it behind him. As they passed the nurses' station, Wallace stopped for a moment to inform them that Connie's room, 511, had been vacated.

Fortunately, it was a quiet Sunday, and there was virtually no one in the halls between Connie's room and the elevators, allowing Henry to proceed at a steady and uninterrupted pace. In seemingly no time at all, they were stopped in front of the bank of steel double doors and waiting for one of the elevators to stop at that level. But even by the time Wallace arrived with Richard in tow and took over for Henry, nothing had happened, and it seemed as if the red digital number counter over each of the doors was frozen.

"Wallace!"

Everyone's head turned simultaneously and saw a man with lightly grayed brown hair, average height and build, and about Wallace's age, coming down the hall toward them at a brisk jog. Wallace waved back and walked forward to meet him.

"Hey there, Cade," Wallace said, extending a hand. "I didn't know you were working today."

Doctor Cade Michaels shook Wallace's hand with a firm grip and shrugged rather nonchalantly. "Well, what can I say? Julie took the kids on a skiing trip out in the Stonies, near Denver City, where they've actually got snow at this time of year. Figured I'd be of better use here than rattling around the house all by myself."

"I know what you mean," Wallace replied. "I felt the same way when Susan took Henry and Richard to visit her folks down in Cuba last year."

Michaels waved to the boys.

"Hey guys, how's it going?" he asked.

"Pretty good," Henry replied.

"We're taking Connie home!" Richard piped up excitedly.

"I see that," Michaels said with a smile. "Hi, Connie."

Connie waved shyly. "Hi."

"Do you remember me? You used to call me Ducky Mike."

Connie wracked her brain, but try as she might, she still could not remember the kind-looking doctor standing in front of her.

She shook her head.

"No? That's OK," Michaels replied. "You'll probably be seeing me soon enough anyway. Then we can catch up."

Henry grinned. "It's time for a rematch, Doc. One on one and evenly matched."

Michaels gave him a cocky smile.

"Bring it on," he said, audibly cracking his knuckles. "So are we still on for tomorrow, Wallace?" he asked.

"I don't know," Wallace replied in an uncertain voice. "What with Connie recuperating and all, not to mention my brother and his family are flying in tomorrow for Christmas..."

"C'mon, Dad," Henry said. "Isn't that what you finished the basement for? It is soundproofed, after all. Besides, we've all been looking forward to the game for a long time."

His father sighed.

"And I'm sure Connie will want some alone time, too," he added. "Especially with us adrenaline-hyped Monday Night Rugby fans around."

"Okay..." Wallace replied. "But I'll have to clear it with your mother first."

"Thanks, Dad. And I'm sure Mom will be fine with it. That way, she won't have to cook dinner."

"She'll probably agree for that reason alone."

A loud _ding_ suddenly broke into their conversation, and one of the elevators finally opened.

"That's our cue," Wallace said.

Michaels snapped his fingers. "Before I forget – you left this at the nurses' station down on 3 when you were filling out Connie's release."

At that, he pulled out what at first glance looked like a tube of toothpaste. It was about the same size, and had a twist-off plastic cap. But that was where the resemblance ended. The bottom half of it was a shiny silver, and the top white, with brilliant blue letters that spelled out _AmerMed Nanogel_.

_What __is__ that?_ Connie wondered.

"Thanks, Cade."

Then the doors started to close again, but Henry darted forward and stuck his arm in between them, bringing them to a stop and effectively holding them open.

"I swear, these elevators..." Wallace grumbled.

"It's almost like someone took 'em straight out of the old building and stuck them in here," Michaels remarked.

"You gotta wonder," Wallace replied. "I guess we'll see you tomorrow, then, Cade."

"Tomorrow it is. Will five in the afternoon work out?"

"Perfect."

"Good. See you later."

And with that, Michaels turned and walked off.

"Bye, Cade!" Henry called after him.

Michaels gave him quick a thumbs-up sign.

"Let's get this show on the road," Wallace said as he backed Connie up into the elevator. Henry and Richard followed, at which time, the youngest Evans once again got the dubious honor of pressing the button for the ground floor. Fortunately, the trip down in the elevator was much faster than the waiting, and before they knew it, they were walking out through the front doors and into the cool, late morning air.

As promised, Susan was waiting there for them, and sitting behind the drivers' seat of a strange, steel-gray van. But that wasn't the weirdest thing. What really had Connie doing a double take was the van's doors.

They were _raised up_, almost like some kind of strange bird's wings.

"What took you so long?" Susan asked as she came around the front of the van. "I was starting to get a bit worried."

"Elevators." Wallace said simply as he rolled the wheelchair up to the edge of the curb, which was nearly level with the van's chassis.

"So what's the plan here?" Susan asked. "Do we just try to get the whole wheelchair in there and lock it in place, or do we just put her in the jump seat on this side, and fold the front passenger seat back so she can rest her legs on it?"

Wallace scratched at his chin thoughtfully.

"You are the doctor, after all," Susan added.

After a few, long moments of thoughtful silence, Wallace finally spoke up.

"I think we'll go with the jump seat. As long as she's belted in properly, and if we take the turns slow enough, there shouldn't be a problem. Henry, you want to help your mom get the van ready?"

Henry nodded, and without a single word of protest, went forward to help Susan get the front passenger and middle jump seats positioned. In less than two minutes, they were done. Wallace then quite gingerly lifted Connie out of the wheelchair and into his arms, at which point the little girl had to hold onto her father for dear life, otherwise, what little time she'd already had to recuperate would all be for nothing.

But within a few seconds – though they felt more like minutes – it was all over. When Connie opened her eyes, she was already seated, and her father was buckling her in. Both of her legs were propped up on the front passenger seat, which had been folded back like a weird version of the lazy chairs at home. There were pillows set up on the seat to help support her bad leg as well.

_Thank God for small favors_...

She watched in absent fascination as her father pushed down on the door, and it began to close all by itself. The fact that the door was closing all by itself wasn't alien to Connie – she had seen the back doors on their... _other _van... do the same many times.

It was just... they just looked so strange...

Henry and Richard then got in on the opposite side and took up their spots in the rear seat while Wallace stowed the wheelchair in back.

"So do you want to drive, or should I?" Susan asked.

Wallace gently pushed down on the rear hatch, and the auto-close took over from there. He sighed.

"If you wouldn't mind, Sus. I can if you absolutely don't want to, though..."

His wife shook her head. "I can manage. I know you had a long day yesterday."

Wallace squeezed Susan's hand and gave her a tired, but grateful smile. He mouthed a silent 'thank you' before getting in and pulling the door closed behind him.

"Everyone situated?" Susan asked from up front.

Henry and Richard both gave thumbs-up signals from the back.

Wallace gave a slight nod.

"Yes," Connie replied. "I wanna go home."

Susan smiled at her daughter.

"That's exactly where we're going, darling."

A low, near-silent thrum ran through the floor as she started the van, put it in gear and headed out to the main road.

They were going home.

Connie gazed out the windows at the main drag as they passed through town. The windows in many of the stores and restaurants were filled with bright green and red Christmas decorations, and an enormous, partially-lit Christmas tree stood in the exact center of the town square. To her surprise, the big old general store and the bakery were gone, as if they had never existed. In their place was the parking lot for a nearby supermarket that Connie didn't recognize.

People on the sidewalks were dressed in strangely light clothes for this time of year, in complete disregard of common sense. She even saw someone wearing shorts and a sleeveless shirt, of all things. Now that she thought about it, her own family was similarly dressed. Even she was wearing a t-shirt, and no one was wearing a jacket.

There were, however, several familiar landmarks, like the main library – even though it looked a little bigger – and the old theater down by the harbor. Surprisingly enough, the theater wasn't all dirty and run-down, like she remembered. Instead, it looked almost brand-new and was brightly lit, with a big screen over the main entrance advertising _Star Wars Episode II: The Clone Wars_.

"Hey mom?" Henry asked from the back.

"Yes?"

"Would it be all right if I went to see _Star Wars_ later this week? I'll pay for myself."

"When?"

"Either Wednesday or Thursday," Henry replied. "I'm still working out the details with Dylan and Eli. And their parents."

"We'll think about it, son," Wallace said. "Family comes first."

Henry let out a sigh, but he nodded.

Seconds later, they were out on the bridge that spanned the main harbor, and for the first time, Connie noticed how quiet the van was. No grumbling engine noise. In fact, the only thing she could hear was the occasional quiet thump of the tires whenever the van rolled over a bump in the road. Strange, but certainly not the strangest thing she'd seen since waking up.

What she saw next, on the other hand, was.

A low droning noise reached her ears, and Connie looked up through the van's tinted sunroof. Her eyes bulged in surprise. No too far above, moving forward at a decent speed, was a roughly oval-shaped, whitish-gray object, with a set of red, white and blue stripes running the length of it.

"Hey, guys," Wallace said to the boys. "It's the Clipper."

"Where?" Henry asked, confused.

Wallace pointed up. "Right over our heads."

"Is that them?" Richard asked excitedly, pressing his face up against the window, and then twisting around in his seat to get a better view.

Wallace shook his head. "The one we're expecting comes in tomorrow afternoon."

"Don't worry, Rich," Henry said, giving his little brother a pat on the head. "You'll get to meet Cousin Mark soon enough."

Now Connie was even more confused.

"Mark? I thought he was already here."

"Not quite, Conse," Henry replied with a laugh.

So, Mark _wasn't_ here yet, but he would be soon. Her mind was having a hard time believing it.

"It looks like Rich isn't the only one excited to meet Uncle Jack's family," Henry said to Wallace.

"Oh, Rich is excited to see them, sure," their father said teasingly, "but what he really wants is to see one of those zeppelins up close."

_Zeppelins? So _that's_ what they're called_. _Funny name_...

Henry laughed aloud.

"Last month, it was one of the trains that runs through Bangor," Susan added, smiling.

Richard was seemingly oblivious to their conversation, his attention locked on the zeppelin, which was now well behind and above them, and moving in the general direction of an enormous building in the distance, a building that looked to be surrounded by a small fleet of boats. But weirder still, that building was floating on the water.

Just as they reached the far end of the bridge and finally hit solid ground again, Richard waved at the zeppelin, as if he were greeting someone or trying to get their attention. The people in the car behind them must have been confused, and thought he was trying to get their attention. A teenage girl in the car's passenger seat waved back, though by that time, Richard was no longer paying the huge dirigible any mind.

A couple minutes later, they passed the road that Connie and her friends from school called 'Mansion Street'. The huge old houses were pretty much the same as she remembered them, though, strangely enough, the trees that lined the block were filled with pale orange, red, and yellow leaves, as if it were still autumn, and not the dead of winter in Maine.

Speaking of which, where had all the snow gone?

There had been a lot of it, enough for Connie to sink down to her knees in, and create small mountains on the sides of the road where the snowplows had piled it up.

Had it all melted? Was that even possible in two days? Surely there would be something of it left behind, even a few puddles of water here and there, but she hadn't even seen _that_ much.

Hopefully it would snow again. Christmas Break wasn't much of a vacation without it.

But before she could think over this latest mystery any further, the van suddenly slowed to a near-crawl, and turned left. Now they were heading down a narrow paved road that Connie failed to recognize at first. But when the van rounded a corner in the 'road', she caught a glimpse of something through a break in the trees that made her heart race.

A big white house.

Her house.

Home.

It was minor miracle that everyone kept their emotions in check in the time it took to reach the end of the driveway. By the time Susan had turned the van off, Henry and Richard were both fidgeting with excitement. They had been waiting for this day a very long time.

Wallace was first to get out, followed by the boys, and then Susan. As Wallace came around to open up Connie's door, Henry and Richard stood back, both of them grinning like they owned the world. And for today, as far as they were concerned, it was theirs.

Their sister was home.

A loud noise from inside caught everyone's attention, and Wallace turned to his sons.

"Henry, you want to take care of that?"

Henry nodded, and with Richard at his heels, the boys practically bounded up the front steps and quickly disappeared inside.

"Where did they go?" Connie asked, feeling a bit concerned.

Her parents smiled at her.

"You'll see," her father said in a secretive voice.

And indeed she did.

A few moments later, a large dog – a golden retriever to be exact – came through the front door on a leash, dragging a somewhat flustered-looking Henry behind it. Richard followed in his brother's wake, and was squealing with laughter. Wallace chuckled, sounding a bit like Santa Claus, while Susan took the opportunity to record the scene with her phone's video-camera.

In the years to follow, this would become a classic family video.

Finally, even Connie started to giggle. Despite knowing full well that her family didn't have a dog, and that the Henry she knew hated animals with a passion, she no longer cared.

"Ranger! Slow down, boy!" Henry cried out to the retriever, almost begging the animal to slow down. Finally, the big dog obeyed, and slowed to a more manageable trot. When they reached the end of the walk and came up to the van, Ranger automatically sat down at Henry's side, pink tongue hanging out of his mouth and panting profusely.

"Connie, this is Ranger," Henry said. "Ranger, you remember Connie, don't you, boy?"

The big dog wagged his tail as if to say 'yes'.

"Say hi."

Slowly, Connie extended her hand, palm up, and in response, Ranger licked her fingers. Connie giggled again.

From that point on, any doubts she'd had about any of this being real vanished like the morning fog. It was all very real, more so than the seemingly inescapable nightmare that she thought was her life.

But now she was awake, and the nightmare was finally over.

* * *

_A/N: A lot to take in, isn't it? This is the first good look we've gotten at the world of 'the Other Side', and I wanted to take full advantage of that. I know you have a lot of questions, and I'll try to answer a few as best I can._

_First of all, why is Connie able to return home from the hospital, barely two days after breaking her leg? First and foremost, you may or may not remember that one of the chapters from Something About Mark mentioned an 'AH injection'. That, my friends, is nanomedicine, something that uses microscopic machines known as nanites to deliver medicine or repair parts of the body at a cellular level. It is, unfortunately, still in the theoretical stages in our world. In this world, on the other hand, since technology is at least twenty years ahead of our own, such rapid healing is quite possible, even in the early 1990s. In Fringe, someone on 'the Other Side' was once shot in the stomach, and the wound was almost totally healed within twenty-four hours. Granted, at that point, it was probably 2010, but considering that this is an alternate universe, almost anything is possible. The 'AmerMed Nanogel' falls under this category as well. _

_What about Cuba? In this universe, the United States purchased Cuba from Spain (along with 'East Florida') in 1819, and it became a state in 1874. The population as of 1993 is roughly 20 million, a good portion of which are retirees from the mainland (which includes Susan's parents)._

_The 'Stonies' is an abbreviation for the Stony Mountains, which was the name of the Rocky Mountains in the early 19th century (1800s). Denver City should be obvious - it's just Denver with 'City' tacked on at the end (it was also the name of Denver back in the mid-1800s). _

_Yes, I went there. Our American football is called rugby in this world (vice-versa, soccer is called football even in the US on 'the Other Side')._

_The family van in this universe is the exact same as the one in Something About Mark - a DeLorean. _

_As for why people in town aren't wearing winter clothing is that the effects of what most presume is a slowly unfolding natural disaster - namely, climate change - have resulted in far milder winters for the Northeast. So mild, in fact, that snowfall is much rarer. But when it does snow, it snows to the extreme, and temperatures go well below freezing. _

_Star Wars Episode II in the early 90's? In this universe, the prequel films get off the ground roughly a decade earlier than ours did, with Episode I: The Phantom Menace coming out in 1989, and Episode II in '93._

_The zeppelin is a staple of 'the Other Side' in Fringe, and I couldn't resist._

_And finally, the dog. Seeing how the Henry of this world is 'normal', and not a sociopath, it seems logical that the family would, at some point, get a pet. That, and I'm a little partial to golden retrievers._

_Once again, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Chapter 7: Word of the Day is now in the works, but I couldn't even provide an estimate at this point. I'll keep you updated._

_Thanks for your continued support. _


	7. Chapter 7 - Word of the Day

_A/N: I know it's been a while since the last update, but the length of this chapter should more than make up for the delay. _

* * *

**Chapter 7 - Word of the Day**

* * *

Henry was back.

Not even an hour ago, Susan had come home from the hospital with him in tow, and the kid seemed little the worse for wear. In fact, Henry was in better shape than when he went into the hospital the other day. On the other hand, he almost seemed to be disappointed that he'd had to leave, unlike most people, who couldn't wait to get out.

Aside from his own mother, there was only one person Mark knew had been in the hospital for a significant period of time:

His best friend, Alan Parks.

Mark could remember like it was yesterday.

* * *

**October 26, 1991**

The hot midday sun hung almost directly overhead, glaring down on the city of Phoenix and its' suburbs. Actual temperatures were in the upper seventies/lower eighties, but with the sun directly on you, it felt more like a hundred. It was only a small mercy living in a state where humidity rarely factored into the daily high temperatures, though sometimes those temperatures got so high that your were liable to be miserable no matter the level of humidity.

To be honest, 'dry heat' was a bit overrated.

On an average day, you might sweat like a pig no matter what, but if you didn't take the proper precautions – 'dry heat' or no – a person walked a very fine line by inviting dehydration if they stayed outside for too long.

Ten year-old Mark Evans had experienced it himself a few times, despite having lived here his whole life. And, more often than not, he'd see a new kid at school go to the nurse during recess with an enormous headache, and they'd be panting like a dog. It was only after the fact that you found out that they were from somewhere in the Midwest (a kid had even come all the way down from Alaska once), where such high heat wasn't the typical norm. It would sometimes take more than once, but the average newbie 'out-of-state' kid would learn his or her lesson the first time around.

Fortunately, Mark had remembered to drink at least a full bottle of water before leaving the house earlier, and he had an extra two stashed away in his backpack for the return trip. Walking would've burned far too much time, which was why he had opted to take his bike out for a spin instead.

He'd gotten permission for this outing from his parents last night at dinner, even though he technically could have gone any time in the past several days. Mark's parents had refused his requests to visit Alan Parks, his best friend, every time before only out of common decency. Why? Because, just over a week ago, Alan had taken a nasty fall from the jungle gym on the playground at school and broken his lower right leg.

Mark hadn't seen his best friend since then, not even while he was in the hospital. A few days earlier, Alan had finally been released and was promptly returned home by his parents to begin the long process of recuperation. Chuck and Linnie Parks hadn't been adverse to the idea of Mark paying a visit, and in fact, had welcomed it as a way of cheering up their son, who had been cooped up without any outside contact for over a week at that point.

It was actually Mark's own parents, Jack and Janice, who had kept him from going over to the Parks' house in the first place. By their reasoning, Mark was rushing things by wanting to go over right away, and that he should give Alan a few more days to recover. Mark had thought about arguing the point, but try as he might, the words never left his mouth.

That was Wednesday night, right after school. Now it was early Saturday afternoon, and with nothing else planned, Mark was finally allowed to go, and all on his own, too. Unlike most kids, Mark enjoyed his relative freedom in a responsible fashion, and rarely – if ever – broke the rules.

It showed just how much faith Jack and Janice Evans had placed in their son.

Mark kicked the wheels into reverse and simultaneously squeezed the handlebar brake, bringing the bike to a stop at the corner of Del-Ray Drive and Sunset Court, just over a block from Alan's house.

A light blue sedan cruised past and turned the corner, heading in the general direction Mark had just come from. After looking both ways like he had always been taught, Mark pedaled across the street to the opposite sidewalk, occasionally casting a quick glance out of the corner of his eye, just to be certain that no more cars were coming. Once he was clear, he poured on the speed, if only to see how fast he – and the bike – could go.

Fortunately, the path ahead was level and clear of major obstacles. Otherwise, he might've ended up taking his own trip to the hospital.

By the time he reached the Parks' driveway, Mark's legs ached from having pushed himself so fast. He vowed never to do that again.

Mark quickly dismounted and began wheeling the bike up the driveway toward the house.

Like Mark's own house, Alan's was a two-story and of fairly impressive size, with an adobe-style exterior and orange-red terracotta shingles. A pair of trellises to either side of the attached garage supported a huge spread of slightly withered ivy wines that had actually begun to creep up toward the roof.

_I wonder how many times Alan's dad has stopped us from climbing those?_ Mark wondered. Certainly too many times to count.

A spacious rock garden took up a sizable chunk of the yard, while an unbroken row of waist-high hedges (more like chest-high in Mark and Alan's case) lined either side of the front walk all the way up to the porch, where a dusty glass-top table and a couple of empty lawn chairs sat off to one side. The Stars and Stripes hung from an angled flagpole bolted to the corner of the porch roof and gently fluttered in the light afternoon breeze.

Mark took a quick glance up at the windows on the second floor, thinking that somehow he might see someone, to give them an idea that he was coming, and instantly regretted it.

A blinding glare from the sun reflected off the glass and right into his eyes, as if his dark-shaded, metal-framed aviator sunglasses weren't even there. Mark winced and squeezed his eyes shut. For the next few seconds, he was forced to blindly navigate the front walk. Fortunately, his eyes had cleared by the time he reached the front steps. Mark then set his bike up against the porch railing, took a deep breath, and rang the doorbell.

Alan's mother answered. Linnie Parks appeared somewhat flustered, but her features brightened considerably and she smiled upon seeing Mark.

"Well, hello there, Mark," she said.

"Hi, Mrs. Parks," he replied. "I suppose you've already figured out why I'm here."

"Of course. Come on in."

Mark removed his sunglasses and gratefully stepped inside.

"It's been a little while, hasn't it?"

"What has?" Mark asked, a bit puzzled.

"Since you were over last. Almost two weeks, in fact."

_Wow. Has is really been that long already? With any luck, Mom and Dad won't be so stubborn next time_.

"I guess so," Mark replied with an offhanded shrug.

"Well, Alan's out in the living room. Just holler if you guys need anything."

"Will do. Thanks, Mrs. Parks."

"Any time, Mark."

With that, Alan's mother disappeared into the kitchen.

Mark had just started toward the living room when an eager voice cried out his name and someone ran right into him. The ten year-old staggered, but managed to stay upright, albeit just barely. He didn't even have to look to know who it was. It was Alan's kid brother, four year-old CJ.

"Mark! Mark!" the little brown-haired boy happily squealed.

Mark smiled and laughed.

"Hey there, CJ. How's things?"

"Good! I was gettin' bored without Alan around."

"I'll bet," Mark replied.

The little boy took Mark by the hand and dragged him out into the living room, where Alan lay sprawled on one of the sofas, his head propped up on a small mountain of pillows, and eyes focused squarely on the big family TV. What had to be a recorded rerun of an old _Scooby Doo_ was currently playing. Seemingly unaware of Mark's presence, Alan laughed at the TV. Then he suddenly raised an arm and waved.

"Hi there, Mark."

Mark shook his head and rolled his eyes. That was just like Alan... He had probably known that Mark was here from the second he knocked on the front door.

"Long time, no see, stranger," Mark replied as he and CJ both took a seat on the other sofa. "So, what gave me away?"

"CJ. The way he greeted you, it's a wonder all of Maricopa County didn't hear."

Mark playfully tousled CJ's hair. "I kinda figured it was you," Mark said to Alan's kid brother.

The four year-old just gave him a gap-toothed grin in reply before suddenly running off to the kitchen, probably to bother his mom for a snack or something.

"So what's new?" Mark asked his friend.

"Not much," Alan replied off-handedly.

"How are you doing?"

"Let's just say, when I come back to school, and when I get this cast off, I'm avoiding the jungle gym and monkey bars like the plague. Breaking a bone _sucks_."

He placed added emphasis on the last word for clarification.

"Especially in our chosen sport," Mark agreed.

"What did Coach Robbins have to say?"

"That we're really gonna miss you for that game against East Tucson next month," Mark replied. "And that he hopes you'll be able to bounce back from this. The whole team does."

Alan sighed. "So do I, man. So do I."

"I mean, you remember when Jason sprained his ankle at practice last year, right? He didn't rejoin the team for almost a month. That leg of yours could end your soccer career before it even starts."

"Relax," Alan said. "My soccer days aren't over until I say they are. Besides, my leg's healing just fine from what the docs said."

Mark breathed a small sigh of relief. "Good. Speaking of which, what was the hospital like? I've heard stories from when my mom had me, but they're understandably vague."

"To be honest, it sucked," Alan replied.

"Really?"

Alan nodded vigorously. "To start out, they had to give me a sedative when they set the bones, so I was a bit loopy for a while, even after I woke up. Then there was another kid I shared the room with. He was cool and all, but he had some kind of breathing problem, and snored like a bear at night. And don't even get me started on the food... It's not called mystery meat for nothing. And to top it all off, I couldn't even go to the bathroom without asking a nurse or one of my parents to help me. Still can't."

Mark grimaced. "Ouch. That just _sounds_ bad."

Alan scoffed. "You don't have to tell me twice. I would never have gone there in the first place if I hadn't broken my leg. The one positive side is that at a certain point everything just kinda blurred together. The morphine probably helped, which is probably why I was loopy in the first place."

"I thought you had to be a certain age to take morphine," Mark said.

His friend shook his head. "As long you take the right dose, a six year-old could have morphine if they needed it. I'm more than old enough, and, I broke my leg. With broken bones, morphine is kind of a necessity."

"Are you on it now?" Mark asked.

"Not at the moment. My parents only give it to me when the pain flares up, and when I go to bed at night, so I can sleep better."

Mark nodded. "Makes sense. Take it before bed so the pain doesn't wake you up in the middle of the night."

"Exactly. Now, that's enough about me and my misfortunes. What's new with you?"

Mark had just opened his mouth to reply when a loud car horn from outside interrupted him.

"Mom!" Alan yelled. "Dad's back!"

Moments later, the door opened and both boys could hear the clamor of voices coming from the front hall. One was high-pitched and quite distinctly female, while the other was a much deeper, adult male. Both were agitated, and they seemed to be in the middle of a heated argument.

"...And how many times must I repeat myself?" the male voice asked. "We specifically agreed that you wouldn't say yes to him, but you did anyway. You are my daughter, and I am _not_ letting you go out on a date with Jon Matthews tonight. That kid's reputation speaks for itself."

"But he's a good guy, Dad," the female voice whined quite loudly. "He's captain of varsity basketball..."

The male voice let out a sarcastic laugh. "That's _exactly_ what I'm talking about! If your reasoning that he's a 'good guy' is solely based on the fact that he's captain of varsity basketball, then you might need to rethink your priorities, missy. You're thirteen years old, for God's sake! And Jon Matthews is _sixteen_ – a high school sophomore. Guys his age and status aren't usually known for their consideration. I just don't want him to hurt you, is all."

"Yeah, right..." the female voice muttered.

Her father let out a sigh.

"Can you just give it some time, okay? Wait a couple of years, when you're in high school yourself, and then we can talk."

"A couple of _YEARS_?!" his daughter exclaimed.

"Yes," he replied in a surprisingly levelheaded tone. "If he's such a great guy, you won't mind waiting. But you're also too young to be dating, especially with a guy three years older than you. Girl, you've got the best years of your life ahead. Don't waste them on someone like Jon Matthews. You're too good for him."

"Arghh!" the girl screamed in frustration. "I hate you! You're such a dictator!"

"That's it!" her father yelled, finally losing his cool. "Chelsea Parks, go up to your room right now, and don't come back down until your mother or I say otherwise. Go. _NOW!_"

"Fine," Chelsea huffed angrily. With that, she stormed up the stairs to her room and slammed the door loud enough to rattle the windowpanes.

Mark and Alan stared at each other, wide-eyed at the exchange they'd just heard.

"Wow," Mark whispered.

"Just be glad you don't live here," Alan replied.

Out of nowhere, someone suddenly vaulted over the back of the sofa that Mark was sitting on and landed beside him. Startled, Mark whirled around to face this intruder. It turned out to be Alan's older brother, Tom, who – at fifteen – was also the eldest of the four Parks' children.

"Unfortunately, we do," Tom added.

"Hey there, Marky," he said, giving Mark a quick noogie. "I figured that was your bike out on the porch. Nice one, by the way."

Mark rubbed his head.

"Thanks," he replied uncertainly.

"What's it called?"

"It's a Trek," Mark replied. "Part of their Jazz lineup, specifically, the Clash."

Alan chose that moment to join the conversation.

"What does it look like?" he asked.

"All black, steel frame, with regular and handlebar brakes. Rides like a dream, too."

"Okay, now I'm getting a bit jealous," Alan said. "How long have you had it?"

"A couple months," his friend replied.

"A _couple_ of months? Then how come I haven't seen it yet?"

Mark shrugged. "My mom usually picks me up and drops me off at school, not to mention that either her or my dad normally drive me over here... The only times I'm really been able to ride are when I take it for a spin around my neighborhood."

"I knew it," Tom said. "You're a momma's boy, Marky."

Mark simply rolled his eyes, but otherwise ignored Tom's remark.

Alan then wrinkled his face in confusion.

"Wait a minute... Your birthday's in April, so why did you get the bike in August?"

"It was an 'end of summer' gift from my mom's parents. Don't even ask why. I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth."

Tom suddenly covered his mouth and snickered quite loudly.

"What did I say that was so amusing?" Mark asked, glaring up at the fifteen year-old.

"I – I just pictured you kissing a horse," Tom replied, before descending into a fit of near-hysterical laughter.

Mark scoffed. "Yeah, yeah. So funny, I forgot how to laugh..."

His response merely served the purpose of making Tom laugh even harder, at which point the teenager left his seat and staggered from the room.

"You're too much, Marky!" Tom called back between fits of laughter. "You're just too much!"

It took the better part of a minute for Tom's laughter to fade from earshot. By then, Mark had chosen to completely ignore it, or, at least ignore it as best he could.

"So... As I was saying..." Alan started.

"I'm sorry, what exactly did you say, again?"

"I asked if anything was new with you."

"Let's see," Mark said thoughtfully. "I already told you about the bike... Oh, yeah... I've got some pictures of it. You wanna see 'em?"

"Sure."

Mark unzipped his backpack and removed several photographs from one of the inside pockets, which he then handed over to Alan. His friend leafed through the images one-by-one for over a minute before finally handing them back.

"Man, you just made me more jealous."

Mark shrugged. "Hey, you're the one who wanted to see them."

"I know, I know..." Alan sighed. "Hey... Maybe you could talk with my dad before you leave later, convince him to get one for me."

"How stingy your dad is with money? Probably not," Mark replied. "But I'll tell ya what, though..."

"What?" Alan asked anxiously.

"When you're all healed up, get the cast off and everything, I'll let you take a spin on my bike. How's that sound?"

His friend mulled it over a bit before replying. "I'll take it."

"Just when _do_ you think you'll get the cast off?"

"Docs said mid-December – at the earliest. That means I'll have to put up with Tom's new nickname for at least that long."

Mark raised his eyebrows in surprise. "_New_ nickname? I thought he already had a bunch for you."

"Apparently, 'a bunch' isn't enough for him," Alan scoffed. "Now he's taken to calling me a 'ginger gimpy'."

"Once again, Alan, your family reminds me of why I'm glad to be an only child."

"You're lucky. You don't have to put up with the teasing at home. As if school somehow wasn't enough... Older siblings are the worst. They use every chance they get to boss you around and more or less tell you that they're superior in every way. Chelsea's OK for the most part, but Tom... Ughhh..." Alan shuddered. "You know what I'm talking about. You've seen what he's like."

Mark nodded.

Indeed he had.

Once, while Mr. and Mrs. Parks were out on a dinner date, Tom and Chelsea had been left to babysit Alan, and Mark, who was staying over at the time. While no one was looking, Tom had emptied several cans of silly string into the boys' sleeping bags, and left both of them madder than hornets. Incredibly enough, Tom had simply laughed, even when Alan and Mark were both yelling at him at the top of their lungs. It seemed as though the madder they got, the harder he laughed. Eventually, Alan had gotten so fed up with his brother that he punched Tom right in the gut and knocked the wind out of him.

Tom hadn't been laughing after that. In fact, Alan had used that time to cut a deal with him: He wouldn't tell their parents about Tom's use of the silly string if Tom didn't tell them about Alan punching him.

Already under fire from their parents about his slipping grades in school and a less-than-stellar discipline record, Tom had jumped at the chance to avoid an intervention by his mom and dad.

"Hey," Mark said, "do you remember... Tom trying to get the washing machine to work when he messed up our sleeping bags?"

Alan laughed. "I sure do. Now _that_ was funny."

"I bet you we'll be smarter when we're his age."

"Probably..." Alan agreed, his voice trailing off a bit.

"You all right?" Mark asked. "Aside from the obvious, that is."

"Yeah," Alan replied. "Just thinking about that... Growing up. Being a teenager and going to high school. Having actual, serious responsibilities. _Driving_ a car... Those are big things, Mark. Really, really big. I don't know about you, but I'm not sure I can handle all that stuff at once."

"No matter what, at least we'll always have soccer," Mark said with a slight grin.

His friend smiled at that.

"I wish we could just stay ten forever, and not grow up."

* * *

At present, Mark was starting to wish the exact same thing.

Unfortunately, he _had_ grown up, and now, as a twelve year-old, he had a responsibility bigger than some adults – and anyone his age – ever would:

Catching a killer.

At the moment, both boys were in Henry's room, with each doing their best to completely ignore the other. At least, Mark was. Henry, on the other hand, wasn't even paying any attention to his cousin. He was too busy fiddling with an old radio over his workbench, and God only knew what he was planning to do with it. In fact, any of the electronic junk in here could potentially be used as a weapon, not to mention the chemistry set or neatly-arranged rows of tools on the shelves above the workbench. And knowing Henry, he probably had some real weapons stashed somewhere, too.

This was a dangerous time to be a member of Henry's family. Just being in the same room was a hazard to your health – and Mark had shared this room with him for over a week now, the sole exception being yesterday and the day before that, the latter of which he now thought of as the Evans family's 'Black Friday'.

Mark was starting to see the two days since as a blessing in disguise, because it had given him a chance to be free of Henry, if only temporarily, and at enormous cost.

Now that Henry was back, Mark would have to ask Susan and Wallace about moving into one of the spare rooms. If they wanted to know why, he would tell them that he wanted to give Henry some time to recover from his ordeal, and that it would be best to give him the space in which to do it. Mark hated lying, but he was starting to realize that bringing Henry to justice would require significant sacrifices on his part, both physical and mental.

Every five minutes or so, he would spare a quick glance over at his cousin, just to make sure that the kid wasn't doing anything out of the ordinary. In fact, Henry was acting a little _too_ ordinary, and just sitting there tinkering with the old radio, as if his sister hadn't just drowned the other day (aside from the fact that he had been responsible for her death in the first place). Those who didn't know Henry as well as Mark did – and, sadly enough, that included Susan and Wallace – would assume that he was withdrawn and depressed as the result of not being able to prevent his little sister's untimely demise.

But Mark knew better.

Henry was far from depressed. If anything, he was almost ecstatic now that he didn't have to share his parents' attention with Connie. As for why he was so quiet... Well, Mark knew that whatever his cousin was thinking, absolutely nothing good would come of it.

_Getting hypothermia at the quarry and being in the hospital for two days barely even slowed him down_, Mark thought to himself. He resisted the urge to shake his head in disbelief and went back to reading.

A few minutes later, a heavy knock sounded on the door, and through his peripherals, Mark saw Henry drop what he was doing in a split second and turn to face the door.

"Guys?" someone called out from the other side of the door, "you mind if I come in? There's something we need to talk about."

It was Wallace.

"Sure, Dad," Henry replied.

The door creaked open on its' aging hinges and Henry's father walked in. Even when he asked for them to come downstairs for a talk, Mark still couldn't bear to make eye contact with his uncle, and kept his attention focused on the book he was reading.

"Mark, please," Wallace said, "I don't want to have to fight with you."

His imploring tone surprised Mark, and was enough for the boy to finally set his book – the complete _Sherlock Holmes_ – aside on the nightstand and get up off his bed. As he started toward the door, he cast a wary glance over at Henry, who returned the look in kind just before following his cousin out into the hall. Wallace brought up the rear, largely to make sure that neither of the boys tried to run off.

What he had to tell them was just too important.

Once they were all downstairs, he guided them into the kitchen and sat them both down at the table. Wallace folded his hands, cleared his throat, and did the utmost to compose himself before speaking.

"Henry, Mark," he started, "These past couple of days have been tough on all of us. But I think you two have taken it really hard – even more so than me and Susan to a certain degree. You boys can't go on blaming yourselves. There was nothing that either one of you could have done for Connie –"

"We should have tried harder!" Henry suddenly blurted. Mark winced and was mildly surprised by his cousin's sudden outburst.

"You gave everything you had to give, son. And we almost lost you, too," Wallace replied. "You know that your mother and I... It wasn't easy after Richard, either. There were times when we both felt like giving up. But do you know what kept us going?"

Henry shook his head 'no', while Mark remained silent, eyes focused intently on the floor at his feet.

"It was you and Connie," Henry's father replied. The look in Wallace's eyes was one of pain and long-buried grief. But there was also something else.

It was a faint glimmer of hope.

"Well, I suppose I did my best," Henry said, half-mumbling. He had no idea what that look in his father's eyes meant. Had Mark been looking up at his uncle at that moment, he probably would have figured it out, but for now, he was still too ashamed to look Wallace in the eye.

That wouldn't last for much longer.

Wallace took in a deep breath before continuing.

"What I'm about to tell you boys has to be taken with a grain of salt. It may not be true, and I don't want you to get your hopes up..."

"What is it, then?" Henry mumbled in a barely audible voice.

"Connie..." Wallace choked. "Connie may still be alive..."

In that instant, Mark's head snapped up so fast Wallace was surprised he hadn't broken his neck, while Henry blanched, and simply stared over at his father, wide-eyed. For the next few moments, a stunned silence hung over the table, with both boys trying to wrap their minds around this new revelation for totally opposite reasons.

_How did she __not__ die?_ Henry thought incredulously. _I never saw her come back up after she went down, and I think I would know if she had_. _It obviously doesn't take that long for a little kid to drown. I mean, just look at Richard_... _Maybe Dad's lying. Giving us false hope_.

It certainly wouldn't be the first time.

_Heh, maybe Connie grew gills underwater_... Henry thought. He resisted the urge to smile – and laugh – outwardly. _I always knew she was a freak of nature_. _I guess evolution decided so, too_. _But even if she __did__ somehow survive, there's no way she'll remember exactly what happened beforehand_. _No matter what really happened to her, I'm in the clear_.

Mark's train of thought, on the other hand, was radically different, and in a positive way.

_It's amazing that she survived_. _I was so sure she was gone_... _Henry was, too. He was __so__ cocky when we talked in the hospital_. _He was proud of having drowned his little sister – like a hunter's first trophy kill! _

Just thinking about it was enough to make him nauseous.

A moment later, Mark decided to speak his mind. Or, part of it, anyways.

"How – how do you know?" he asked his uncle.

"Two men from the FBI were here yesterday afternoon," Wallace replied. "In fact, they left only a little while before you came back."

"Did they explain why they think she's still alive?"

"A rescue dive team from Portland was brought in to search the quarry. They didn't find even a trace of Connie, which is why they're operating on the assumption that she's not..."

"Dead?" Henry interjected in a depressed tone. He was playing the part of someone with self-imposed guilt quite well. Had Mark not known Henry's true nature, he would have probably believed his cousin's act, too.

Wallace nodded.

"Then do they know where she is?" Mark asked.

Mark's uncle shook his head.

"It would seem as if Connie has... gone missing."

* * *

Henry cracked his knuckles and an evil grin twisted the corners of his mouth as he walked out of the kitchen and into the hall a few minutes later.

He was in the clear.

Connie was somehow still alive, but no one knew where she was. The FBI had gotten involved, though, and was heading the search for her, or so their father had said.

That was unfortunate, but it was no matter, really.

_Probably just a couple of junior feds fresh out of Quantico looking to score big points with a missing child case_.

The FBI...

Even though he was out of his father – and hopefully Mark's – eyesight, he just barely resisted the not-inconsiderable temptation to smile, and even laugh. To him, the FBI was nothing more than an oversized and over-extended police force with fancier badges and more official-sounding titles than your average cop.

Still, he figured it was best to lay low for a while, and avoid drawing too much attention to himself. Not to mention that even just a few days of staying quiet would help keep up the image of a mourning brother. Even better, he could use that time to plan his next move against Mark.

But for that exact same reason, his cousin would know that something was up.

At first glance, Mark looked like a weak, pathetic nerd. But Henry had to admit, the kid had brains, though certainly not enough to outsmart _him_ any time soon. Mark's real strength lay in his persistence and his will to fight, both of which could pose a serious threat to Henry's plans if left unchecked.

He had to find a way to make himself all but untouchable in the eyes of his parents if Mark ever got up the nerve to openly accuse him. At this point, such a bold move was highly unlikely, sure, but it still wouldn't hurt for Henry to reinforce his position.

_In any case, I don't think he even has the balls to challenge me_.

Henry was so self-absorbed at the moment, he initially failed to notice one of the overhead hall lights flickering. In and of itself, that wasn't unusual at all. This _was_ an old house, and the wiring wasn't exactly state-of-the-art. Maybe back in the '60s, sure, but not now.

But in this case, the wiring was perfectly fine.

Out of nowhere, a dim, shimmering light suddenly appeared in the middle of the hall, not ten feet in front of Henry. He looked up in surprise.

_OK. That's __definitely__ not the wiring_...

The light flickered erratically for a few seconds before stabilizing around a small, but distinctly human shape.

_What the...?_

Then that human shape rapidly began to take on defining features.

Long brown hair.

Hazel-green eyes.

Pale skin.

A dark colored shirt and pair of jeans that looked as if they'd seen better days.

And finally, a face.

Henry's eyes went wide. Standing before him was an apparition of the very thing he had gotten rid of, or at least tried, to get rid of:

Connie.

A person never quite believes in a ghost until he or she lay eyes on one themselves. As for Henry, he was still finding it all but impossible to believe, even as this phantom slowly staggered toward him. He blinked once, twice, and then three times, and yet nothing had changed. Well, almost nothing. The glowing, shimmering apparition with Connie's face was a bit closer, and a second one had appeared behind it, this one even shorter than the first.

Even though this new figure was quite a bit farther away, by the time its' features came into focus, Henry knew who it was.

Richard. He looked a bit older, and ever so slightly taller, too. Probably what he would have looked like by now, were he still alive.

A slight whisper echoed in his ears.

_Henry_...

"What?"

He whirled around, thinking Mark or his father was trying to get his attention, but no one else was there.

_Henry_...

Henry turned again, and the apparitions were still there.

_Henry_... _Henry_...

He shook his head, but the whispers persisted.

_Henry_...

Henry smacked a palm against the side of his head, to no effect.

_Henry_... _Henry_... _Henry_...

This was really starting to get irritating...

_Henry_... _Henry_... _Henry_... _Henry_...

He clenched his fists, knuckles turning white and hands trembling with rage. If he heard that one more time...

_Henry_...

"Stop it!" Henry screamed, slamming his fists into the wall so hard he cratered the plaster.

An instant later, the apparitions vanished, and his father and Mark both ran out into the hall, surprised to see Henry leaning against the wall, gasping for breath, and his whole body trembling.

It almost sounded like he was sobbing, too.

Almost.

* * *

_A/N: Definitely the biggest chapter yet. Was it worth the wait? _

_It was especially interesting writing the flashback, and I hope you liked the introduction to Alan's family. _

_I've already started work on Chapter 8: Hanging By A Thread. It will up the ante and set the tone for the rest of the story. _


	8. Chapter 8 - Hanging by a Thread

**Chapter 8 - Hanging by a Thread**

* * *

It was sometime before midnight when a faint noise somewhere inside the house woke Mark from his sleep.

Not that it hadn't been a restful sleep. In fact, despite his new accommodations, it was quite the opposite.

Following Henry's sudden outburst earlier that afternoon, Mark had finally put in his request to move into one of the family's many spare bedrooms. As expected, Susan and Wallace had wanted to know why, so Mark gave them his pre-planned excuse: that he wanted to give Henry the chance to recuperate on his own. Fortunately, they had accepted it without hesitation and quickly agreed to his proposal.

Mark was put up in what was probably the smallest bedroom in the house, three doors down the hall to the left of Henry's room. Susan and Wallace had referred to it as 'the Middle Room'. Not only that, the old metal-framed bed in here had never been designed for comfort, to such an extent that Wallace had half-heartedly joked it wasn't even made for sleeping at all.

By all appearances, the room hadn't been used for anything except storage for a long time. Surprisingly enough, there was hardly a speck of dust in sight. Susan probably cleaned in here on a weekly basis.

The only other things of note aside from the bed were a pair of old TV sets, one of which looked to be just as old as, or even older, than Mark's father. Modern TVs definitely put them to shame.

The bedsprings creaked as he sat up and yawned. Indeed this thing hadn't been made for comfort – his back could attest to that – but comfort was a pretty small price to pay for peace of mind.

Mark cocked his head in the direction of the closed door and listened.

Nothing.

_It was probably just the wind or something_.

He was just about to lay back down when what sounded like a faint crash reached his ears.

_OK. That __definitely__ wasn't the wind_.

He somewhat reluctantly heaved himself out of bed and slowly padded over to the door and out into the hall, barefoot. Mark glanced off to his left, and despite the shadows that virtually cloaked that end of the hall in darkness, saw nothing. And initially, it was the same off to his right, with the doors to the adjacent room and linen closet shut up tight. But when he rounded the corner, it was plain as day that the door to Henry's room was wide open.

_Oh no_...

Even though it was dark inside, Mark knew that his cousin wasn't in there.

He hurried down the hall and checked Susan and Wallace's room. Fortunately, there was no sign of anything amiss in there.

Where could Henry be?

Another noise, this one just barely audible, caught Mark's attention. He moved to the top of the stairs and listened. It sounded like... Knocking?

Whatever it was, it was definitely coming from downstairs, though where exactly he couldn't tell.

Mark started down the stairs in a careful and deliberate manner, taking extra care to not make any noise.

The knocking repeated every few seconds, but by the time Mark reached the foyer, the intervals had grown to such a degree, he was all but certain the noise had completely stopped.

That was when he saw it.

Down the hall off to his right was Wallace's study, and just before that, another door. It was cracked open a couple of inches, through which peeked a narrow shaft of dim light – just barely enough for Mark to see where he was going.

He felt a growing sense of dread and apprehension as he approached the door.

What was behind it?

There was only one way to find out.

Mark gripped the cool metal of the knob in his hand and pulled the door open. Beyond lay a flight of painted wood steps that led down into a space whose sole illumination was a dimming light bulb near the bottom. It was only the basement, but finding that out did little to calm his nerves.

Henry was down there.

Lurking in the shadows.

Waiting to strike.

If Mark wasn't careful, he could become his cousin's next victim.

He took in a deep breath and wrung his hands, which had begun to sweat with anxiety.

_Here I am, contemplating going into a dark basement. How many cheap horror movies start out this way? Too many_. _And when does something like this end well in one of those movies? Never_.

But this was real life.

As far as Mark knew, there were no mutant creatures or zombies down in his aunt and uncle's basement. There was a monster, though. The human kind.

He'd just have to be on his guard.

Before he even knew what he was doing, Mark was standing on the top step, working up the courage to go on. Slowly, but surely, he neared the bottom, with each step ratcheting up his anxiety tenfold. By the time he reached the bottom, his heart was hammering in his chest and the blood was pounding in his ears.

Mark gulped.

All around him was a sea of blackness, punctuated only by the dim light of the overhead bulb and even dimmer light from one of the outside windows. He half expected to see a pair of red or green-glowing eyes staring back at him.

But there was nothing.

A chill ran through him, though not just from the cold concrete beneath his bare feet. It was terror. Sheer, unfettered terror that threatened to make Mark's heart burst out of his chest.

_Henry would just love that. Me dying of fright_.

At the moment, his fight or flight response was heavily weighted towards flight, and yet he stood his ground. Why, he couldn't really figure out.

_Maybe there's a switch or a pull chain around here somewhere_. _An actual light would go a long way towards making this place a whole lot less creepy_.

Mark took a few tentative steps forward until the tips of his fingers came into contact with the rough cinder block wall.

For what was probably just a minute or so – though it seemed much longer – he blindly worked his hands along the wall before locating what he believed to be a light switch.

_Please be it. Please be it_...

He flicked the switch, and several fluorescent lights hummed to life, bathing the basement in a pale white light and banishing the shadows to the farthest corners.

_One less thing to worry about_.

Mark breathed an immense sigh of relief, and promptly turned around to get his bearings.

Wallace and Susan's basement was pretty much like any other, a curious mix of neat and haphazardly arranged contents. Stacks of old cardboard boxes and Rubbermaid storage bins were lined up along the side wall in semi-organized rows, followed by a heap of musty-smelling carpet rolls. Along the far wall were shelves filled with all manner of gardening equipment, tools, cleaning supplies, and bottles of chemicals that Mark couldn't even hope to pronounce.

A sudden bang very nearly made the boy jump out of his skin, until he realized that it was just the old central heating system kicking in. He stared at the furnace and let out a nervous laugh. Was _that_ all it was?

Maybe he'd made a big deal out of nothing.

He let out a tentative sigh of relief.

No sooner had he done that than something briefly crossed in front of a light on the other side of the staircase.

Then again a few seconds later.

And again after that.

Mark abruptly froze in fear. Goosebumps crawled across his skin, and his heart raced.

Where could Henry have been hiding?

What was he going to do?

Those were questions only Henry had the answers for.

Once again, Mark's fight or flight response was working overtime.

It was always easier to simply run away from a fight and avoid it altogether.

_God only knows how many times I've done that_, he thought.

That tactic had served him well with bullies at school. Usually. Sometimes they got right up in your face, at which point they were all but impossible to ignore, and there was little you could do to stop them from outright beating on you or stealing your lunch money.

Without a doubt, he knew that Henry was the biggest bully around here. Surprisingly enough, Dylan Conners didn't really strike Mark as the type, and it was a small wonder that the kid was even friends with Henry. The fact that Henry even had friends at all was a miracle.

The supposed friendship Mark had had with him at first had been nothing more than a sham. In all likelihood, he had simply been using Mark, and testing him to see if their thinking processes were anything alike, hoping that he could find a new partner in crime.

But they couldn't be any more different.

For one thing, Mark had a conscience, while Henry didn't even know what a conscience was.

To Henry, this was an advantage. Without a conscience, there was nothing holding him back, and he was free to do whatever he wanted, unencumbered by any moral dilemma that might arise as a result of his actions.

But for Mark, even something as comparatively simple as lying weighed quite heavily on him.

At the moment, that meant one thing:

Henry was unpredictable at best, while Mark had no recourse but to follow an all-too predictable path. Turning his back and going back to bed like nothing had happened was just that. It could also lull him into a false sense of security.

Maybe it was time to wander from that path.

With this in mind, Mark pressed forward, determined to try and throw Henry off his game. But what he saw a moment later was more than enough to throw him off his.

Henry was there all right, but not in a way that Mark expected.

By all appearances, he had hung himself.

Mark clamped his hands down over his mouth, barely stifling a gasp of horror. He suddenly felt weak in the knees.

Was it at all remotely possible that he'd somehow misjudged Henry? Until that very moment, Mark wouldn't have even considered that he was wrong about his cousin, but now...

And as much as Mark had wanted to stop his cousin – and he very nearly had at the hospital yesterday, in a moment of personal weakness – it wasn't in his nature to do so in a violent manner. Violence in and of itself wasn't really in his nature, period.

"No..." Mark whispered. This wasn't what he wanted. He wanted justice for Connie and Richard, not their brother committing suicide because he felt guilty over their deaths (at least in Richard's case).

But no matter how guilty he felt over his mother's death, Mark had never thought of killing himself. At worst, suicide was a coward's way out, and at best, you would be seen and remembered by the world in the most undignified way possible. At the moment, Mark wasn't sure which one better fit the situation.

The only thing he _was_ certain of was that Henry didn't deserve to be seen like this. Susan and Wallace didn't deserve to see him like this, either. What they did deserve was to remember Henry like they had always seen him – the good son, a caring and selfless young man – rather than a coward who had taken his own life out of guilt, or the cold-blooded liar Mark knew – or had thought – him to be.

At the very least, even Henry deserved dignity in death.

Mark stepped out a little further, and quickly took stock of what his cousin had done. A chair lay on its' side, probably where Henry had kicked it away and knocked it into a box of old toys, whose contents were now scattered across the concrete.

So that was what the noise was...

Taking a deep, reluctant breath, Mark righted the chair, taking great care to avoid looking up at his cousin. But by the time he was standing on the chair that was all but impossible. He gulped. He had never been this close to a dead person before, and it sent chills up his spine.

Henry had somehow nailed a bed sheet to one of the rafters and used that to hang himself. His chin rested on his chest, and his arms hung limply from his sides. Even his eyes were closed. He almost looked like he was asleep.

But looks could very easily be deceiving, as Mark had found out the hard way. Suddenly, without really knowing why, he reached out and gave Henry a slight push, as if expecting him to wake up and yell _boo!_ right in his face. All it did was make Henry's body sway back and forth on the end of the sheet, without so much as a single twitch. Mark shuddered at what he had just done, and did his best to focus on the sheet.

If he could only find a hammer and get out the nail...

No, that would take too much time. He didn't want to be down here any longer than necessary.

Maybe he could use a knife from the kitchen to cut it?

No. Any knife he could get his hands on that was within his reach would never be able to do the job of cutting through the sheet.

The only other way he could think of was using brute force to simply pull it down. But by the time Mark had worked up the nerve to do so, his hands and most of his body were trembling, he had broken out in a cold sweat, and goosebumps crawled across his skin.

_What am I doing?_

_Giving him the honor he never had in life_.

But were their positions reversed, Henry would probably have left him there and made him look the part of a guilt-ridden coward.

Mark was no coward. He was only human.

Doing his best to fight back a wave of nausea and revulsion, he took hold of the sheet and pulled. Slowly, but surely, the sheet began to give under Mark's added weight. And after what seemed an eternity, a loud noise signaled that the sheet had finally had it. It ripped apart right down the middle and dropped Henry's limp body to the floor with a dull thud.

He blinked, and it was all over.

Henry lay sprawled on his back on the concrete, unmoving.

Was he really dead?

Before he knew what he was doing, Mark was running away, up the stairs as fast as he could, and didn't stop until he reached Wallace and Susan's room. Without even bothering to knock, he burst through the door, ran over to the bed and quickly shook them awake.

"Mark?" Susan asked in a very tired and groggy voice.

Wallace sat up and blearily rubbed his eyes. "Mark, what the hell...?"

"It's Henry," Mark replied. "He – he... I think..."

He couldn't bring himself to say what he'd found.

"Spit it out, Mark," Wallace said, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

Mark swallowed hard, and his lower lip was trembling ever so slightly as he spoke.

"I think..."

He hesitated for a moment, but pressed on nonetheless.

"Henry... he tried to hang himself down in the basement," he finally finished.

Susan sat bolt upright and scrambled out of bed, suddenly wide awake. Wallace threw on his robe, came over, and seized Mark by the shoulder before hustling him out.

"Show me," Wallace demanded harshly. "NOW!"

He quick-marched his nephew downstairs, with Susan practically at their heels. Mark could hear her whispering to herself the whole time, but the words were too faint for him to hear clearly.

Wallace was shoving him forward so fast that Mark almost tripped on their way down the basement steps. He took a quick glance off to the side.

Had Henry moved while he was upstairs?

"Henry!" Susan cried out in horror at seeing her son lying prone on the floor, a sheet tied about his neck. She brushed past her shell-shocked husband, and ignoring the cold under her bare feet, ran over to and knelt by Henry's side.

_No... No... God, NO!_

She hurriedly untied the sheet and threw it away before checking her son's neck to see if he still had a pulse. At first, nothing. Susan was nearly ready to scream in rage when she felt a slight flutter in his carotid artery. Was it... could it be?

_Yes!_

Henry was still alive!

_No thanks to Mark_, a voice in the back of her head reminded her.

"How did you find him?" Wallace asked Mark, his tone stern and steely eyes locked on his nephew.

Mark stuttered nervously as he spoke.

"I – I was woken up by – by a loud n-noise, and – and came down here to investigate."

"Go on."

"When I found him, he – he was..." Mark shuddered. "He was... hanging from the rafters, r-right above where he is n-now."

"And...?" Wallace demanded impatiently.

Mark bit his lip.

"Mark! Talk to me!"

"I – I got him down and –"

Susan whirled around.

"What?!"

"I couldn't just leave him like that. You – you didn't deserve to remember him that way."

"How _dare_ you!" Susan cried angrily. "You don't get to decide what we should and shouldn't see!"

"I'm sorry... I didn't..." Mark meekly tried to apologize, but without much success.

By now, his aunt was glaring at him. "And did you even check to see if he was even still alive before just running away?!"

Mark's eyes went wide.

He hadn't.

"I – I just assumed..."

"Of _course_ you did!" Susan shot back, eyes blazing. "And he _is_ still alive, no thanks to you."

Mark slumped forward, head in his hands, almost ready to cry. He was only trying to help...

"Your hands, why are they bleeding again?"

He lifted his head and looked down at his hands. They _were_ bleeding again.

"It – it must've happened when I pulled the sheet down..."

"Or maybe when you strung him up!" Susan snapped.

_What?! No!_

Mark was stunned at her accusation.

"Why – why do you think I would do such a thing?" Mark asked, his voice faltering.

Susan ripped him out of Wallace's grip and shook him as she talked. "I've seen that look in your eyes when you're around me. You're jealous of Henry, the fact that he's my son and I'm his mother. You couldn't stand it, because you wanted a new mother, and you wanted that new mother to be me. So you tried to get Henry out of the way in order to have me all to yourself. But your plan didn't work. Henry survived, and now you're making up excuses, to cover up the fact that you tried to murder my son!"

Mark's vision swam and his mind reeled. He just barely stayed upright, and if not for Susan's surprisingly firm grip on his shoulders, he would have collapsed to the floor in a sobbing heap. All he wanted to do right now was to curl up in a ball and cry. He hadn't done _anything_ wrong, yet his aunt was accusing him of trying to kill Henry.

It was preposterous. She wasn't making any sense.

Wallace had remained quiet the whole time, trying to process the situation as best he could. Fortunately, he was a bit more level-headed than his wife at the moment, and was somewhat taken aback by the sudden accusations she had leveled against Mark.

They had been married for over fifteen years now, and he knew when she wasn't thinking straight. This was definitely one of those times. He understood all too well where she was coming from, though.

In the space of just two short days, Connie had seemingly drowned at the quarry – though was simply missing – and now Henry had just tried to commit suicide, probably as a result of the former.

_It's a wonder Susan's not thinking straight. Hell, it's a wonder __I'm__ still thinking straight at all_.

But was that an excuse to go after their nephew like that, openly accusing him of attempted murder? Mark might still have his issues, namely dealing with Janice's death, but Wallace seriously doubted that the boy was anywhere near capable of the things Susan was saying.

Unseen by anyone, Henry began to stir, and a loud groan suddenly escaped his mouth. Susan let go of Mark and in a flash, she was once again kneeling on the concrete beside her son.

"Henry!" she cried out in relief.

Henry slowly opened his eyes and stared up at Susan.

"Mom?"

Susan nodded. "Yes, baby. I'm here."

"You're not an angel, are you?"

His mother shook her head. "No, I'm not."

Henry looked confused.

"Then I'm not in Heaven, am I?"

Susan shook her head again and sniffled quite loudly.

"Henry... baby, what... what happened?"

Henry struggled into a sitting position and hung his head, seemingly ashamed.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I so sorry. I – I just couldn't bear to live with the thought that I was responsible for what happened to Connie. You'd be better off with Mark than with me."

"Don't talk like that," Susan said. "You're my baby, my firstborn, and you're as precious to me now as the day that you came into this world."

A slight smile turned up the corners of Henry's mouth.

"And you aren't the one that death follows at every turn," his mother added, casting a scathing glare over at Mark.

That was the final straw.

Mark crumpled to the floor, back up against the wall, and burst into tears. For a brief moment, while his parents' attention was focused solely on his cousin, a sinister smile split Henry's face.

His plan was working perfectly.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Susan led both boys by the hand out into the living room, while Wallace stayed back in the main hall. Susan guided them both over to the couch, and while she let Henry seat himself, she practically shoved Mark into it. The brown-haired boy's face and eyes were red and somewhat puffy from crying. Not only that, but he was so physically and mentally drained that he hadn't the will to resist or even cry any more. He just sat there quietly and hung his head.

Susan then joined Wallace out in the hall, and they spoke in hushed tones just barely above a whisper.

"What are we going to do, Wallace?"

"I don't know, Sus."

"One thing's for sure, they both need help."

"Should we call 911? Have them make sure Henry's okay?"

Susan shook her head. "That's not the kind of help I had in mind."

Wallace closed his eyes and sighed. He knew what she meant.

"One of us should call Alice Davenport," his wife suggested.

"I'll call her in the morning," Wallace replied.

"No, now!" Susan hissed angrily.

"Good God, Susan, it's the middle of the night. The poor woman's probably sleeping."

"Wallace, the boys need her kind of help, and they need it right now. And someone needs to watch over them tonight. Otherwise, we won't get any sleep ourselves, and we sure as hell need it."

Wallace sighed again, but nonetheless nodded in agreement. It was next to impossible to argue with Susan or change her mind when she was this angry.

"Okay, I'll do it."

With that, he walked off to his study, and shut and locked the door behind him. He'd need the privacy to gather his thoughts before calling Alice.

He didn't really like the idea of leaving his angry wife alone with their son and nephew, but it was probably better in the long run that he talk with Alice instead. Wallace could provide a slightly more objective viewpoint at the moment, unlike Susan, whose anger very well might skew Alice's take on the situation.

He turned on the desk lamp before taking the phone from its' cradle and dialing the number for Alice Davenport. He looked up at the clock on the far wall.

It was 12:09 a.m.

This was going to be a long night.

* * *

Back out in the living room, unseen by Susan, who was currently stalking the main hall, Mark cautiously raised his aching head and took a glance over at Henry, to see if he was okay. But when he looked over at his cousin, Henry was staring right back at him, with an amused gleam in his eyes and a hint of a smile on his face.

_He __faked__ all that?! _Mark thought incredulously. _Of course, I should have known, but I let myself get suckered into thinking he had somehow turned human all of a sudden. _

Mark normally had a tendency to see the good in people. But not now.

There was nothing good in Henry. There probably never had been, and there certainly never would be.

Some things just never changed.

* * *

_A/N: This is probably the quickest I've gotten a chapter out in a long time. So, what did you think? Was this a game-changer?_

_I know you're probably wondering "How did Henry survive?" Well, if you've seen the first of the Robert Downey, Jr. Sherlock Holmes movies, you might know. Near the end, Holmes explains how the film's main villain survived his hanging, namely by using a harness attached to the hanging rope that distributed his weight in a manner that kept him alive. Look up 'Sherlock Holmes Ending Scene' on YouTube if you want a clearer explanation. In any case, Henry devises something similar and uses it to fake his suicide attempt._

_From now on, the primary TGS universe is going to be a bit darker, and Mark will be fighting an uphill battle the whole way. _

_Chapter 9 will take us back to 'the Other Side', and will finally introduce parallel Mark, Jack, and yes, Janice (who is still very much alive and well). Stay tuned. _


End file.
